


Winter

by Adolphus Longestaffe (adolphus_longestaffe)



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Loki and Thor Are Not Related, M/M, Minor Loki/Thor (Marvel), More characters to be added, background sam/clint, not an incest ship, not brothers in any way, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-01-11 18:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 171,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18429857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adolphus_longestaffe/pseuds/Adolphus%20Longestaffe
Summary: Known in the supernatural circles simply as Winter, James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes is the most feared and powerful vampire in Brooklyn. He definitely does not want to be bothered by the irritatingly blonde and cheerful werewolf who has just moved into his neighborhood.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes lives on the top floor of a six-story apartment building in a very hip neighborhood, which has gotten very expensive as the years have gone by, as much of Brooklyn seems to be doing these days. How expensive have apartments in Brooklyn gotten? Doesn’t matter. He’s owned the building since 1917.

One man owning a building in this hip neighborhood for a hundred years may have drawn some unwanted attention by this point, but that’s all taken care of by his holding company through his various attorneys. They do the rent collecting and legal and tax business, he gets obscene sums of money deposited into his bank account with their fees deducted, and he doesn’t have to think about it. It’s the perfect situation for a vampire.

The most feared and powerful vampire in Brooklyn, to be exact. Known in the supernatural circles simply as Winter, because vampires don’t talk their real names around. Also, it’s pretty fucking hard to strike fear into the hearts of anyone with a name like Bucky. Thanks for that, mom. Didn’t realize your son might be stuck with a cutesy kid name for actual eternity, did you.

Bucky steps out of his building onto the street, wearing sunglasses, despite the fact that it’s just past six in the evening. The sun has already crept down below the western horizon, but the rays still bother his demon’s eyes, until the sky has fully blackened into night. And the sunglasses look really good with his long hair and black leather jacket. Which looks good with his thin, white, incredibly expensive v-neck t-shirt and tight, grey jeans (fashionably faded and distressed, of course, he’s a vampire not an animal).

He is walking along, minding his own business (daydreaming about draining the life out of a human being till he feels the death spasm of their heart) when a neon-green tennis ball rolls past his well-worn black boot. Without thinking, he bends down and grabs it, stopping it right before it rolls into a drain.

“Hey, nice catch!” a man’s voice calls out, from twenty yards away, or thereabouts.

Realizing his mistake, Bucky extends the ball away from his body as if it’s something dirty, which it certainly is, and waits for the man to approach him. The lingering light in the early-evening sky is still blurring his vision, so he can’t actually see the man as more than a bluish, person-shaped blob till he gets closer.

His fangs ache as he catches sight of a broad, muscular chest and trim waist in a tight, blue t-shirt. The very tall, very blonde man steps into full view in front of him, and his big, bright-blue eyes hit him like a Mack truck. Then the scent of wolf hits him with a similar impact. He feels his fangs retract, and he looks him up down with a distasteful expression as he hands back the offending ball.

“Thanks so much,” the man says, with a big, stupid grin on his stupid, handsome face. “It was cool of you—oh, you’re a vampire! Neat!”

“Yeah, I am,” Bucky hisses. “But I’d rather it didn’t get broadcast all over the fucking neighborhood, you idiot! Don’t they teach you about staying concealed at…werewolf obedience school, or whatever?”

“Werewolf obedience school,” the stupidly handsome wolf-man laughs. “That’s funny! I’m Steve, by the way. I just moved into the neighborhood. What’s your name?”

Bucky narrows his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Winter.”

It’s technically true, since that is what he’s most commonly called among the other kinds, and he’ll be damned if he’s stupid enough to let a wolf find out his real name. Who knows who he’d repeat it to.

“Ooh, cool,” Steve says, raising his blonde eyebrows. “That’s a good vampire name. I don’t have a wolf name, so I’m plain old Steve. Steve Rogers. I just moved into that building over there.”

Bucky looks at the building, then back at Steve. “Do you usually tell strangers your full name and where you live?”

“Not usually,” Steve shrugs. “But we’re neighbors, so you’re not really a stranger, you know?”

“What do you mean, neighbors?”

“Well, I saw you come out of that building, so we live across the street from each other. Neighbors.”

“Perfect,” Bucky says drily. “Goodnight, Steve Rogers.”

“Hey, wait,” Steve says, trotting to catch up with him. “Where you headed?”

Bucky stops and glares at him, realizes the effect of the glare is lost behind his sunglasses and removes them, then glares at him some more. Steve blinks and his mouth opens and shuts.

“What?” Bucky says irritably.

“Hm? Oh, uh…I was just asking where you’re off to. I don’t know the neighborhood yet, and I thought it might be somewhere interesting.”

“I’m going hunting, Steve,” Bucky says. “I can’t eat people food twenty-eight days a month and call it good. I need blood. Really soon.”

Steve cocks his head to one side, in an absurdly canine manner. “Is that why you’re so cranky?”

“I’m not…cranky,” Bucky replies, realizing mid-sentence that he is indeed, very cranky. “Anyway, if I am, it’s because I’m not used to being bothered first thing in the evening by some big, blonde…wolf.”

“Are there a lot of big, blonde wolves around here?” Steve asks.

“No. There are no wolves around here. Except you, I guess. I meant I’m not used to being bothered by anyone.”

“Cause everyone’s scared of you?”

“Yes.”

Steve frowns. “That sounds really lonely, Winter. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not lonely. I like being alone. We’re not pack animals like—oh fuck me, you didn’t show up here with your whole pack, did you? Welp, there goes the neighborhood.”

“Nope,” Steve says, resuming his cheerful smile. “Just me. I don’t have a pack right now.”

“Oh. Well, Steve, it’s been really great meeting you. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go kill something and drain its blood before I lose my fucking mind.”

“It’s been great meeting you too,” Steve beams. “Oh, hey before you go, can I get your phone—”

He stops short, blinking around at the empty street. Right. Vampires do that dissolve into smoke thing. He stuffs his phone back into his pocket and smiles to himself as he walks back toward his apartment.

 

 

 

Many hours later, Bucky drifts home in a warm haze, half-drunk on the blood of a very drunk young man he picked up at (and left in the alley behind) a popular dance club. He staggers at the front door of his building and grabs a pillar to support himself, as he punches in his secure entry code. The mechanism buzzes, and he pushes the steel door open, then makes his way up the five flights of stairs to his top-floor apartment.

He pulls down the heavy shade and closes the blackout curtains over one of his large, bedroom windows, then moves to the second. He has pulled the shade halfway down, when some movement in front of the building across the street catches his eye. The door is just shutting behind Steve Rogers, that big, blonde, annoyingly-hot wolf man from earlier.

He’s got on grey sweatpants and a very tight, grey athletic shirt, that displays his excessively perfect upper-body like a pastry in a glass case. Bucky can’t actually eat him, but he supposes there’s no harm in looking. His fangs stay put, since he’s well-fed at the moment, but his body has a far more human reaction, as Steve stands there stretching his long, muscular arms. Stupid, sexy wolf.

Just as he is thinking this, Steve raises his head and looks directly up into his face, as if he’d been aware Bucky had been there the entire time. To his vampire observer’s astonishment, he smiles a stupid, sunny smile and actually waves. Bucky glowers and pulls the shade down the rest of the way. What is this wolf’s fucking deal? Can’t he just be creepily ogled without making shit awkward?

He draws the rest of the blackout curtains and falls into his big, soft bed to sleep through the sunlight hours, and not think about Steve Rogers at all. He’s irritating and he stinks like wolf.

And what the fuck is he doing up before sunrise, going running like some kind of asshole, anyway? Is it a wolf thing? Being hyperbolically handsome and blonde and fit, and showing it off by exercising before anyone normal is awake? No, it’s definitely not a wolf thing. He’s run across many over the years, and they were nothing like Steve.

Ugh. Steve. What a fucking dick.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

Bucky feels like shit. Like a whole bag of shit. A whole bag of shit that fell out of a garbage truck and got run over by the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. He’d thought the kid at the club was drunk, but whatever he’d been on, it certainly wasn’t alcohol. Bucky has bled hundreds of drunk humans, and he’s never once had a hangover like this.

He stands under the hot water in his shower, head throbbing and spinning, wishing he could throw up or die or something. Anything would be better than this. He almost pities the way that kid’s gonna feel when he wakes up in a pile of cardboard boxes, with this hangover on top of the one from the vamp bite, which he hears are fucking spectacular.

Once he’s sufficiently berated the shower for its refusal to help, he gets out and towels off, then stands before the mirror, raking his wet hair back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. With a muttered curse at the dark circles under his eyes, he stumbles out of the bathroom, tugs on a black t-shirt and jeans, and pushes his darkest sunglasses onto his face.

He is just stepping into the hallway, when he recalls that he is not wearing shoes. He turns back to slide his feet into a pair of oxfords before he drags himself out the door, in search of a cup of strong, black coffee. One hundred cups of strong, black coffee. One hundred cups of the strongest, blackest coffee there is.

Vampires can’t consume any human food with nutritional value, especially anything solid, which…the less said about that the better, but things like tea, coffee, alcohol, and weirdly, hard candy, are ok. They seem to be capable of obtaining a mild effect from caffeine (though some say it’s purely psychosomatic) but they can’t get drunk from alcohol unless it’s filtered through a human. Hence Bucky’s vast experience consuming the blood of intoxicated humans.

He is making his way unsteadily down the stone steps outside his building, when something hits him square in the chest, with a dull thunk. He stops short, blinking in disbelief. Who the fuck is throwing shit? Who the fuck is throwing shit at him? Someone who wants to die, obviously, but what the fuck did they throw?

He peers down to see a fuzzy, neon-green tennis ball rolling down the steps. His vision nearly goes red. Steve fucking god damn shit fucking Rogers and your fucking tennis ball this shall be the day of your untimely—

“Hey, Winter!” the soon-to-be dearly departed werewolf’s voice calls out, as his blue blob emerges from the early-evening blur. “Sorry about that. I thought you’d catch it.”

“You threw your ball at me,” Bucky says through his teeth. “Because you thought I would…catch it.”

“Yeah,” Steve chirps, stooping to pick it up. “You caught it yesterday, remember?”

Bucky stands there staring at him, trying to work out whether any sentient creature can really be this stupid, or if Steve is some sort of genius of annoyance sent to infuriate him into self-immolation.

“Steve, listen to me,” he begins, in a quietly menacing tone.

“Hey, are you ok?” Steve interrupts, suddenly looking concerned. “You’re really pale. Like, even for a vampire. And your hands are shaking.”

“I—have a hangover. That doesn’t matter. I’m trying to tell you that you can’t just go around throwing balls at people. It’s incredibly rude and annoying.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Winter,” Steve says. He looks at the ground and stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets. This causes him to drop his ball, which he bends down to pick up again. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I just…catch is super fun. I thought you might like to play.”

The downcast expression on the stupid, handsome wolf’s stupid, handsome face immediately makes Bucky feel like the biggest piece of shit in the universe. That’s only marginally worse than he already felt, but it’s enough to make him regret his harsh words.

“Come on, don’t do that fucking sad-face,” he sighs. “I’m not a nice person. It’s better you get that through your head sooner than later.”

Steve looks up at him again. “But…I think you’re a nice person.”

“Based on what, Steve? The fact that I’ve been extremely unfriendly to you all of the two times we’ve met?”

“You haven’t been unfriendly. You saved my ball from going down that drain and gave it back to me. That was super friendly.”

“Fuck me,” Bucky groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’d love to stand here and have this ridiculous conversation with you, but my head is fucking killing me. I have to get some coffee right now.”

“Oh, I love coffee,” Steve says brightly. “Where are we going?”

Bucky mutters something in Russian and stalks away down the sidewalk, with Steve trailing happily along after him, tossing his ball into the air and catching it as he goes.

Around the corner on the next block, is Heart of Darkness, the ultra-hip espresso bar Bucky frequents. The young woman behind the counter has a septum piercing and hair almost as red as her crimson lipstick, and is dressed in black, head to toe.

She eyes Steve skeptically, then nods to Bucky. “Hey, Winter. Usual?”

“Quad. I’m dying.”

“Everyone’s dying, babe,” she replies languidly, as she steps over to the long, stainless steel espresso machine. “At least you’re making it look good. What about you, goldilocks?”

“Oh, um, I’ll have the same, please,” Steve says, managing to appear confused and cheerful at the same time.

“You better just make it a double for my…friend,” Bucky cuts in. “He’s already got way too much energy.”

The woman glances at Steve again. “You got it.”

Bucky glowers into his sunglasses and pretends to ignore Steve, who watches with eager fascination as she draws rich, dark brown shots of espresso from the machine and pours them over steaming water in white, paper cups. When she slides the beverages across the counter, he smiles and thanks her so sincerely, that she can’t help but smile back.

“You come back soon, goldilocks,” she says, with a wink. “Later, Winter.”

“Later, Tash,” Bucky calls over his shoulder.

Steve follows him outside, where he slumps into a chair at one of the wrought-iron tables and swallows a long draught of the hot, aromatic liquid.

“Wow, she was really nice,” Steve beams, taking the chair across from his. “I like this place.”

Bucky keeps drinking his coffee.

“I bet you know all kinds of cool places, huh,” Steve continues blithely. “It must be great to have people all around who know your name and what you want, and like talking to you.”

“I don’t know, Steve. My head really fucking hurts. Could you be quiet for a little while?”

“Oops, sorry,” Steve whispers.

Bucky leans back and removes his sunglasses, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand. His vision is clearing as the sky darkens, but his skull is still splitting.

“You look really sick,” Steve frowns. “Why’d you drink something with those weird herbs in it, anyway?”

“What weird herbs, Steve,” Bucky sighs.

“You know. Verbena and juniper. If you don’t want to have headaches, you shouldn’t use those. They’re poison for vampires.”

Bucky sits up and looks at him sharply. “Wait, what do you mean? I didn’t take any verbena or juniper.”

“I mean, you obviously did. I can smell them all over you,” Steve laughs, then his expression changes. “Wait, you really didn’t know you took them?”

“I’m not stupid, Steve, why would I poison myself on purpose?”

“Some vampires use a diluted solution like people use alcohol. Being drunk is just mild poisoning. But if you didn’t take them on purpose…Winter, do you think someone tried to poison you?”

“Well, I do now!” Bucky says, gesturing emphatically with his cup, which sends some of the hot coffee splashing onto his thigh. “Fuck—ow! God damn it.”

“You’re going to be weakened until it wears off,” Steve says, hopping up from his chair. “You better stick with me tonight, in case whoever did it is counting on that. Come on. You need clean blood right away. That’ll help flush it out.”

Too bewildered to argue, Bucky gets up and follows him down the street. “How the fuck do you know so much about this? You take a class on vampire poisons or something?”

“Yeah,” Steve smirks. “At werewolf obedience school.”

“I’m serious,” Bucky says, stopping dead in his tracks. “You showed up yesterday with your tennis ball and your big sweet smile, and I just happen to get poisoned. And now I’m supposed to trust you? How do I know you didn’t poison me so you can get me alone and kill me?”

Steve squares his shoulders and fixes him with his keen, bright-blue eyes, which makes him seem suddenly much older and a lot less stupid.

“Poison is the murder weapon of cowards, Winter,” he says. “Do you think I’m the kind of man who would use it, even on an enemy?”

Bucky stands there with his mouth open, momentarily stunned at the transformation produced by this small change in the man’s posture and intonation.

“No, I…I don’t,” he says. “I just don’t understand why you give a shit, is all.”

Steve’s sunny smile returns. “Because you’re my friend.”

“We’re not friends, Steve!” Bucky says, throwing his hands up in exasperation, and splashing more of his coffee. “That’s what I mean! I don’t even know you!”

“I disagree,” Steve says, turning and continuing down the street. “Let’s find you some food.”

Whether it’s the effect of the poison hangover, or this looping rollercoaster thing Steve seems to be doing to his brain, it only occurs to Bucky now that he can’t actually hunt with Steve present. He’s not sure what to do about it, so he follows him in silence, till they reach an intersection and stop to wait for the crossing signal.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Steve,” he says, chafing his hands together uneasily. “I hunt alone.”

“That’s how you got into this mess in the first place. Maybe you should try being less alone.”

“It’s not just me. All vampires hunt on their own.”

“Why?”

“Because we kill people for food. It’s not pleasant and we don’t like to be seen doing it.”

“But…you don’t kill people for food,” Steve frowns.

Bucky’s already pale face goes ash-white. “What are you talking about?”

“You drink people’s blood, but you don’t—”

Before Steve can finish his sentence, the vampire’s cold, inhumanly strong hand is clapped over his mouth and he is being dragged bodily into a dark alley between two buildings. Bucky slams his back against the brick wall and holds him pinned with an arm across his chest, looking up and down the alley, and appearing to be listening. After a long moment, he uncovers his mouth.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks, bewildered. “You know you can’t—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky hisses, turning his fierce, green eyes on him. “Explain to me exactly why you think I don’t kill people for food.”

“Well…I think it cause you don’t,” Steve says, flushing with embarrassment at being looked at so closely. “If you did, I’d be able to smell death all over you. You smell like human blood and those herbs, but you don’t have the death scent.”

“The death scent?”

“Yeah. The, uh…the scent that vampires get from killing things. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“Is that a wolf thing? Being able to pick up this death scent?”

“It must be. I couldn’t smell it before I was a wolf.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. “Christ. I am so fucked.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Steve says sympathetically. “Um. Why are you fucked?”

“Steve, listen to me very carefully,” Bucky says, as calmly as he can. “If other vampires find out I have been draining humans without killing them, they will see it as a sign of weakness. That will make me a target. They will come for me, and it will end in a fucking bloodbath. It is of the utmost importance that you keep your mouth shut about this.”

Steve nods. “I won’t say anything. I promise.”

“Swear it, Steve. I need to hear the words.”

“I swear on my mother, Winter. Your secret is safe with me.”

Bucky realizes he is still holding the man forcefully against the wall and releases him, stepping back awkwardly. “Thanks. That…means a lot to me.”

“No problem,” Steve say cheerfully. “That’s what friends are for.”

Bucky doesn’t appear to hear him. He is looking up and down the alley again, passing his hands anxiously through his hair, which has escaped its tie and is hanging wildly about his beautiful face. Steve stuffs his hands in his pockets against the sudden urge to reach out and touch those silky, dark-brown waves, and looks at the ground.

“Fuck me,” Bucky mutters. “I’m glad I didn’t kill that fucking kid at the club.”

“Kid at the club?”

“Yeah, he had to be how they poisoned me. I didn’t drink anything else all night. If I’d drained him, I’d be in much worse shape now. But why wouldn’t they just come after me right then, when I’d be at my weakest?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says thoughtfully. “That’s pretty weird. Who would benefit from killing you?”

“Whoever wants to claim my territory. No one else would, though. I keep the other kinds in line, I don’t let them run wild here. I even keep the crime rate down by dealing with scumbags. Who I do kill, by the way. It’s just been a while since I’ve had to.”

“Maybe that’s why they spiked the kid. They knew you’d be weak from the poison, and they knew he’d survive and make you a target for other vamps.”

“Yeah, but he’d have to remember me biting him. He won’t.”

“So, they were watching you somehow.”

“They couldn’t have been. There wasn’t another vamp in a five-block radius. I’d have known it.”

“Maybe it isn’t other vamps. Maybe it’s fanatics.”

“Fanatics don’t exist anymore, Steve. They haven’t since…I don’t know. Nazi Germany.”

“They do. They’re underground now, because no one believes in our kinds anymore, but they’re out there.”

“How do you know?” Bucky frowns.

“I’ve run into them myself,” Steve says, in a tone that does not encourage further questions.

Bucky studies his face for a moment, then looks away again. “Well, there’s one way to get some answers. We find that kid from the club and see what he knows.”

“You’re still weak, Winter. It’ll be dangerous for you to go sniffing around until the poison wears off.”

“Well, lucky for me, I have my big, strong werewolf buddy to help me if I get into trouble.”

“Yeah, lucky,” Steve says. Then he looks up suddenly. “Oh no! I left my ball at the coffee shop!”

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

“This is the place?”

“Yes. What.”

“Nothing. It seems…nice.”

“It’s not nice, Steve,” Bucky says. “It’s a repulsive dance club where I pick up drunk idiots to eat.”

“Looks like it’s pretty popular,” Steve says, indicating to the long line of people awaiting entry. “Should we get in line?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and walks directly to the door, where two towering, black-suited bouncers stand, with clipboards and earpieces.

“Mr. Winter,” the first says warmly. “So nice to see you again, sir.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the second says, holding up his clipboard to stop Steve. “Your friend isn’t in dress code.”

“Yes, he is,” Bucky says flatly.

The man looks briefly flustered, then he pushes the door open. “My mistake. I apologize, Mr. Winter. Please, go right in, sirs.”

It takes Bucky’s vampire senses a moment to acclimate to the chaos of inputs created by the overpowering aromas of blood and sweat and liquor, the grinding, bass-heavy music, and the boisterous voices of the patrons. He looks up to see how Steve is faring, and finds him fucking beaming his thousand-watt smile at everyone and everything he sees, like some kind of lunatic.

“Steve!” he half-shouts, over the general din. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Steve blinks confusedly, then addresses him at his normal speaking volume. “I’m…following your lead?”

“Oh,” Bucky says, lowering his voice to a conversational register as well. “I didn’t realize you could do the sound filtering thing too.”

“Yep. Wolf hearing. We have to filter, or it’d be impossible to go anywhere, you know?”

Bucky opens his mouth to ask if that’s how Steve had known he was watching him from the window this morning, then realizes that will require admitting that he had been watching him from the window, and shuts it again.

“So, do you see the kid anywhere?” Steve asks, looking curiously about, as if he’ll be able to recognize him somehow.

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t expect to. Not if he’s feeling anything like I am. He had a tab open, though, so the bartender might remember him. If we can find out his name, we can find out where he lives.”

“Oh, you just want to know where he lives? I can track him there by scent. If you…happen to have anything with his scent on it.”

Bucky gives him a look.

“Right,” Steve says. “Bartender it is.”

They walk up to the crowded bar and wait, while the bartender finishes helping four giggling young ladies in dresses that apparently legally constitute clothing.

“Hey, Ramon,” Bucky says, as the man steps over. “You remember that guy I was talking to last night? Blonde, blue eyes. Kind of on the young side?”

“Riley Harper,” the bartender nods.

Bucky blinks. “You…remember his name?”

“Yeah, cops came around asking about him earlier. Damn shame what happened. Seemed like a nice kid.”

“Cops?” Bucky frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Winter. It was all over the news today, so I figured you knew,” the bartender says, leaning over to speak confidentially. “Homeless guy found him a few blocks from here early this morning. Cops say he had his throat cut.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky breathes, gripping the bar for support.

“Hi there, Ramon,” Steve says, with his blandest, most non-threatening smile. “My name’s Steve. You didn’t happen to see Riley talking to anyone else last night, did you?”

“You a cop too?” the bartender asks, eyeing Steve cagily.

“No, he’s cool, Ramon,” Bucky says. “He’s my friend.”

The bartender glances at him, then back at Steve. “Like I told the cops, I didn’t see him talking to anyone. He had some drinks, did some dancing, and left by himself around three am.”

“Thanks so much for your help, Ramon,” Steve says, still smiling politely. “I’m gonna take Mr. Winter home, now. This is a…bit of a shock.”

Steve lays his large, heavy hand on Bucky’s shoulder and guides him back out the front doors of the club, bidding a cheerful goodnight to the two bouncers as they pass.

“Ok, tell me exactly what happened after you left the club with Riley,” he says, once they are out of earshot. “Where did you take him?”

“We went out the service exit in the back,” Bucky says numbly. “We got…acquainted, and then I bit him. He passed out and I laid him down on some cardboard boxes, so the staff would find him when they took out the trash after closing. But I made sure he was breathing. I know what I’m doing. There’s no way I killed him, Steve.”

“I know you didn’t. Ramon said he was found a few blocks away, so whoever did kill him took him out of the alley where you left him first. Maybe there’s something there that’ll help me identify them.”

“You know, you do sound a lot like a cop,” Bucky says, squinting at him as they walk around the corner. “And you kind of look like one, come to think of it.”

“I’m not a cop, Winter,” Steve sighs. “I’m a wolf. Kind of makes it hard to get into municipal law enforcement.”

“What do you do for a living, anyway? There a lot of money in wolfing?”

“Enough,” Steve says evasively. “What do you do?”

“Nothing,” Bucky grins. “I am a man of independent means.”

Steve gazes at him with an odd expression on his face.

Bucky stops smiling and scowls. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Sorry,” Steve says, turning away quickly to hide the blush he feels rising in his cheeks. “I just—I haven’t seen you smile. It’s…nice.”

“That’s it up there,” Bucky says, pointing a little way up the alley. “I left him right here. The boxes are gone, though. Recycling must’ve been picked up.”

Steve crouches at the spot Bucky indicated, snuffing and scenting the air. Then he lifts his head and takes some short rapid breaths.

“I already smell something super weird,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “There’s…all kinds of scents here. Hang on, this is way too fresh. We need to be—”

Just as he is saying this, he hears a bizarre, hissing sound, almost like an arrow flying past his head. He leaps to his feet and whips around to see Bucky standing there staring blankly down at what is definitely an arrow, sticking out of the right side of his chest. Steve’s wolf senses locate the shooter instantly, perched on a fire escape above them, a few yards away.

“Move a single step and the next one goes in his heart,” the man calls out. “Hands where I can see ‘em, both of you.”

“He can’t put his hands up, you shot him with a fucking arrow!” Steve calls back, as he raises his own.

“Steve,” Bucky rasps, staggering backward. “It…hurts.”

Steve throws his arms around his friend and lowers him gently to the ground, where he lies dazed, with red-black blood bubbling from between his lips.

“I said don’t fucking move!” the archer shouts, nocking another arrow.

“Shut the fuck up!” Steve barks. “Unless you’ve got something better than linden arrows in that quiver, I’d start running.”

“He’s got something better,” another voice says, from somewhere above Steve’s head. “He’s got backup.”

Steve hunkers protectively over Bucky’s supine body, as a man with what appear to be enormous falcon wings drops onto the asphalt in front of them and levels a pair of machine pistols at him.

“We got no quarrel with you, man,” he says. “Back away from the bloodsucker.”

“You’re gonna have to do better than bullets, too.”

The man gives a start as Steve looks up at him. His normally blue irises have ignited, flashing out like brilliant, amber-gold flames. He lets out a low, menacing snarl and bares his elongated eye-teeth, revealing their razor-sharp points.

Despite his obvious alarm, the man stands resolute. “That vamp you’re protecting killed my friend.”

“He didn’t kill anyone,” Steve growls. “You’re after the wrong man.”

“I’m not after a man. I’m after the undead son of a bitch who drained my buddy and tossed his body in a dumpster. You can get out of the way, or you can go down with him.”

“Uh, Falcon…that guy is a wolf,” the archer calls down. “You sure you want to do this?”

“This motherfucker killed Riley!” the man who is apparently called Falcon shouts back. “You have my back or not?”

“Riley?” Steve asks. “Riley Harper was your friend?”

“I’m gonna start counting, Old Yeller,” Falcon replies, sliding his fingers onto the triggers.

“Stop and listen to me for a second,” Steve says, holding up his hands and rising slowly to his feet. “You’re picking a fight you can’t win, out of loyalty to your friend. I respect that. But I’m not going to let you get yourself killed for nothing. I’m telling you, this man didn’t kill Riley. We’re here trying to figure out who did, just like you are.”

The man stares at him, appearing to waver. “Why don’t you let emo Nosferatu speak for himself, then.”

“Because he’s got an arrow in his lung, dumbass,” Steve retorts. “I think whoever killed your friend used him to poison mine. He’s weak. I need to get the arrow out of him before his chest cavity fills with blood.”

They both look down in surprise, as Bucky tosses away the arrow that had been buried in his chest and rolls onto his stomach, hacking and spitting blood all over the ground in front of him.

“You guys talk—so fucking much,” he pants.

Falcon shifts into a defensive posture, training both guns on him as he pushes himself laboriously to his feet. Hanging onto Steve’s shoulder to steady himself, Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the thick blood across his chin.

“You think that’s the first linden arrow someone’s tried on me, bird man?”

“Why don’t you give my friend an excuse to try a few more,” Falcon returns, squaring his shoulders.

“I don’t think Steve is going to let him do that,” Bucky smirks. “He’s extremely loyal.”

“Thank you, Winter,” Steve says, keeping his eyes on Falcon.

“Steve?” Falcon frowns.

Steve crosses his arms on his chest. “That’s right. I don’t have a wolf name, so I’m plain old Steve. Steve Rogers.”

“Steve, god damn it!” Bucky hisses. “Full name! Strangers!”

Falcon’s expression changes and he lowers his weapons. “Holy shit, man. I thought you looked familiar. You’re Captain Steve Rogers. Of the Howling Commandos.”

“Who’s asking?”

“Special Agent Sam Wilson, with Shield. My wingman up there is Hawkeye. It’s a real honor to meet you, sir.”

Bucky looks on in frank incredulity as the bird man holsters his weapons and steps forward to shake hands with Steve, who then exchanges casual salutes with the archer on the fire escape.

“Does someone want to tell me what the fuck is going on?” Bucky demands. “Why is everyone friends now?”

“No one said we were _your_ friends, Twilight,” Falcon retorts, eyeing him up and down.

“Oh, Twilight,” Bucky sneers. “That’s pretty clever for a giant turkey. You think of that just now?”

“Hey, we have a common goal, here, guys,” Steve cuts in. “Either we’re working together, or we’re not working efficiently. Hawkeye, why don’t you come down here, so we can all talk like friends.”

The archer immediately shoulders his bow and begins to climb nimbly down the fire escape.

“Talk like friends?” Bucky exclaims, absolutely beside himself. “These assholes just shot me in the chest, Steve! With an arrow! Like Lord of the fucking Rings! Why the fuck is the bird man calling you sir? And what the fuck is a Howling Commando?”

“I’ll explain, but you need to try and stay calm,” Steve says soothingly. “Look, you’re bleeding again.”

“God fucking damn it,” Bucky growls, pressing his palm to the hole in his chest, from which blood is seeping into his black t-shirt. “It’s the linden and the poison. I need blood. Like…really badly.”

At that moment, the archer’s boots hit the ground and he jogs over to join them.

“Captain Rogers,” he says, shaking Steve’s hand. “Special Agent Clint Barton. How’d you get mixed up with the bloodsucker? I thought wolves and vamps had beef from way back.”

“Not all of us,” Steve shrugs.

“Cap, you know who this guy is, right?” Agent Barton adds in an undertone, eyeing Bucky warily.

“Yeah, I do. He’s my friend. And I know for a fact he didn’t kill Riley. Someone poisoned him and now it looks like they set him up, too. I think they were counting on you to kill him.”

Barton’s eyebrows go up. “Shit. But who would—”

“You’re saying my best friend is dead because someone wanted to get to this dude?” Falcon interrupts angrily. “How the fuck is that possible? Riley was a good man. He was worth ten of this fucking bloodsucking freak.”

“I’m so sorry about your friend,” Steve says, with genuine pain in his blue eyes. “People have been taken from me, too. People who meant the world to me. But it’s not right to attack an innocent man because you’re angry and hurting. That’s not justice, and you know it.”

Falcon shakes his head and looks away for a long moment. Then he turns to face Steve again. “You said they used Riley to poison him. How’d they do that if hipster Dracula here didn’t kill him?”

Steve looks at Bucky, whose face has already begun to take on the pearly-white sheen of blood starvation. “I promised, Winter. I won’t tell your secret without your permission.”

“It’s…ok,” Bucky mumbles. “You can…tell the bird men…”

The world around him tilts and spins, and begins to disintegrate, like sand being blown away in a strong wind. The last thing he sees is Steve’s stupid, handsome face looking down at him, as he sinks into soft, black oblivion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

“What the…fucking fuck,” Bucky rasps, struggling to force his eyes open.

He lifts his head and blinks around groggily. He can’t see much of anything, aside from a greyish blur of room, punctuated by searing-white blurs where his heavy window treatments don’t quite prevent every photon of sunlight getting in. That means it’s daytime and he’s awake for some reason. At least he’s in his own bed in his apartment. It could be much worse.

He drops his head back into his fluffy, grey-cased pillow and tries to shake his thoughts into order. The last thing he remembers is…those fucking asshole birds in the alley who shot him with a fucking arrow. He lays his hand on his chest where the hole had been. It’s already healed, of course, but still. Those pricks. Who uses a fucking bow and arrow anymore?

After they shot him, they made some kind of truce with the stupid, sexy wolf-man (who, as it turns out, may not be as excessively stupid as he seems), then they talked for fucking ever till Bucky finally passed out from blood loss and poisoning. So how the fuck did he get into his apartment?

“Hey, Winter,” Steve’s voice says suddenly, from somewhere near the foot of the bed.

“Jesus Christ, Steve!” Bucky exclaims. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“Oh, sorry. I thought you saw me.”

“It’s the middle of the day, I can barely see anything.” Bucky squints around until he finds the Steve-shaped blob. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m laying on the floor by your bed,” Steve says, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to say to anyone under any circumstances. “We didn’t think it was safe to leave you alone, since people are conspiring to kill you, so I stayed here to protect you. How are you feeling? Are you in pain?”

“No. I’m not in pain,” Bucky says irritably. “How did we get into my apartment while I was unconscious?”

“We came here with two spies. They hacked your secure entry thing in like, ten seconds.”

“Of course they did. Those fucking birds are not in my fucking house too, are they?”

“No, they went to Shield to see what they could find out for us. They’ll be back tonight.”

“Of fucking course they will,” Bucky mutters. “Why is this happening to me? I had such a nice little life, doing my thing and not being bothered. And then this stupid, blonde wolf shows up with his tennis-ball and ruins everything and now people want me dead. Like, actually dead.”

“Aw, it’s not that bad Bu—I mean…Winter. Oops.”

“Oops is right, Steve! How the fuck did you find out my name?” Bucky demands, fixing his green eyes as fiercely as he can on the Steve-blob.

“I—ha. Well, that’s a funny story,” Steve says sheepishly. “Shield has a file on you. Clint and Sam told me.”

“That is a funny story,” Bucky replies calmly. “Could you come here, please?”

“Um. Why?”

“Because if you are all the way over there, I can’t strangle you. And I would really like to do that.”

“Ok, but, instead of murdering me, which I’m not sure you can actually do, maybe you could say something nice? I kind of saved your life last night. And I stayed here to make sure no one kills you in your sleep.”

Bucky sighs and rubs his eyes with heels of his hands. “Fine. Thank you for kind of saving my life and trespassing in my home.”

“No problem,” Steve says cheerfully. “We’re friends, Buck.”

“God fucking damn it.”

Steve’s bright smile is audible in his voice. “Sorry, it’s just such a nice name. I really like saying it. And it seems so much more like _you_ , you know?”

Bucky’s stomach does an odd flip at this, which makes him suddenly confused. His name did sound sort of good when Steve said it. Familiar and comfortable. Like…well, like something that belongs to him. He almost kind of enjoyed hearing it. Ughhhhh he’s going to fucking regret this.

“Ok, Steve, here’s the deal,” he says. “You can call me by my real name. But only when no one else is around. And don’t tell it to anyone else. I don’t want it getting broadcast all over the place. It’s a vampire thing.”

Steve nods solemnly. “Ok, Buck.”

“Will you come over here now? I can’t see you and it’s really weird talking to a blurry, Steve-colored area.”

The Steve-blob moves closer until it resolves into actual Steve, who sits on the bed beside him and smiles his stupid, sunbeam smile. As he does, a strong wave of his scent washes over Bucky.

Rather than the repulsive, musky, rancid-piss on tree-bark wolf smell, however, Bucky finds his senses overtaken by something like cedar and leather, and sage smoke in the desert. Something raw and primal and profoundly _male_. It’s so intoxicating, that he has to physically restrain himself from grabbing Steve and biting into his golden-tanned skin, just to get as much of that scent into his body as he can.

“Steve, you…your scent,” he says, nearly panting. “It’s different. Why is it different all the sudden?”

“Um, my scent?” Steve asks innocently. “I don’t know.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “You are the worst liar ever.”

“Ok, I was going tell you,” Steve says, with a visible wince. “But you have to promise you won’t be mad.”

“I absolutely do not promise. What did you do to me?”

“You were in big trouble, Buck. I had no choice.”

“What did you do!” Bucky demands, grabbing him by the front of his stupidly blue shirt.

“I gave you my blood,” Steve blurts out. “You lost a ton and there was no way to get a human for you to drink with you passed out and bleeding all over the place.”

Bucky lets go of him and sits back. “Oh. Well, thank you. That was kind of you.”

“You’re…welcome,” Steve says warily, looking at him as if he is a serpent who might suddenly strike.

“Wait, why are you being so weird about it? Is there something about wolf blood I don’t know?”

“No. Well. Maybe. It’s just…it may make you a little…wolfy…for a little while. Is all.”

“Wolfy how?” Bucky asks, becoming irritated again. “Steve, if I look in the mirror and I am a fucking wolf man, I swear to god I will eviscerate—”

“No, no, nothing silly like that,” Steve breaks in. “But…you might have some wolf-like symptoms for a couple days. Like the sense of smell thing. You’re processing my scent like other wolves do right now. It’ll wear off, though. Don’t worry.”

“Am I going to go around pissing on fences and sniffing people’s crotches?”

“You’re thinking of dogs, Buck,” Steve laughs. “Wolves aren’t really like that.”

“Said the guy who loves his tennis-ball like a firstborn child,” Bucky smirks, then his eyes widen. “Oh, shit, it’s still at the coffee shop! We have to go get the ball right now, Steve!”

“No, you have to rest,” Steve says firmly. “You can’t do anything until nightfall, anyway.”

“Fine,” Bucky pouts, flopping back into his pillows. “But we’re going to get it before we do anything else tonight.”

“Agreed,” Steve nods.

He moves to get up, but the idea of him going away sends Bucky’s mind whirling into a panic, and he catches hold of his arm.

“You don’t…have to sleep on the floor,” he says, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward. “You can sleep in my bed.”

Steve frowns apprehensively. “I don’t know, Buck. That doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“No, it’s not—I’m not trying to fuck you,” Bucky says, then pauses, passing a hand across his brow. “Listen, this is going to sound really fucking weird, but…I think your scent is doing something to my brain. Like, calming me down or something. I just—I want you to stay close to me really badly right now.”

“Oh,” Steve says, smiling again. “That doesn’t sound weird at all.”

Bucky blinks, taken aback. “It…doesn’t?”

“Nope. The other wolves in my pack wanted to sleep near me all the time. I’ve got that kind of scent, you know?”

“No. I mean, I guess I sort of know, now. Are you going to lie down, or what?”

Steve crawls cheerfully into the middle of Bucky’s bed and rolls onto his back, then spreads out his arms. “Come on, snuggle up.”

“Steve, if you ever say the word ‘snuggle’ to me again—”

“I know, I know, you’ll eviscerate me and hang me by my entrails,” Steve laughs, as Bucky settles against his big, warm body. “You vampires really need to come up with some more creative threats.”

Bucky ignores him and pushes his face into his chest, taking deep, meditative breaths, letting Steve’s strangely comforting scent saturate him.

“Your apartment is super nice,” Steve says, after a few minutes have passed. “You could fit like, three of mine in here.”

Another minute passes.

“I like your white leather couch. Is it hard to clean?”

“Please…please, shut up,” Bucky mumbles into his stupid, blue t-shirt. “I am begging you.”

“Oh, right, this is vampire sleepy time,” Steve whispers. “Goodnight, Buck.”

“Goodnight.”

“I mean, it’s day, though, so…good day, I guess.”

“Steve, I swear to god.”

“I was joking! I’m shutting up now.”

Steve lies there staring up at the ceiling, smiling to himself and stroking the vampire’s back as he drifts off. Once he’s asleep, Bucky doesn’t breathe, which is a little weird, and his body is quite cold in comparison to Steve’s own, but he doesn’t feel dead, or anything. His heart beats and Steve can feel the blood rushing around in the veins and tiny capillaries beneath his impossibly smooth, flawless skin.

Vampire skin is so interesting. It’s not like the skin of any other creature in the world. It feels like ultrafine silk, but woven from some kind of durable, ballistic fiber. His vampire friend has all kinds of interesting textures, actually. His hair is a lot like human hair, but it’s heavier and smoother, as if each strand is spun from dark-brown glass. His muscles are hard and sinuous beneath his pale skin. Less like meat and more like some kind of malleable metal. His bones have the kind of strength that seems to come from centuries spent solidifying and hardening, like sedimentary stone. Like the bones of the earth itself. He doesn’t display it openly, but Bucky is terrifyingly strong. Even compared to others of his kind.

More interesting than all his textures, however, is Bucky’s scent. It is…the most amazing thing. Its core is always the same, but its layers and subtleties shift and change all the time, constantly surprising Steve with new and fascinating arrangements. It also displays his emotions like flying banners, though Steve doubts he’s aware of this. He should probably tell him. It wouldn’t be right to conceal the fact that he can read him by scent like a very open book with big, brightly-colored pictures in it.

Vampires usually smell awful to Steve, because of that hollow, acrid death-scent that’s always lingering on them, but Bucky is free of that. He smells like fresh snow and clean earth, with something like spicy tobacco at the edges. There is also a tang of rusted metal in it, because of the blood, but Steve rather likes this smell. He’s a predator, too, after all.

He draws him closer and breathes deeply. He smells peaceful now. All his scent layers drifting along in parallel, like soft, harmonious music. The discordant verbena and juniper are long gone, burned away by the small quantity of Steve’s blood that had healed the linden-tainted wound within seconds. It’s better that he’s sleeping now, after taking even that much. Its most potent effects will have lessened by the time he wakes up for the evening.

The sun meanders its slow course across the sky, and is sinking below the western horizon when Bucky wakes again, feeling energized and refreshed, and even more irritated by Steve’s sunny sanguinity than usual. This is likely due to the fact that Steve’s newly delicious and enticing scent is all over his body and his bed, and he’s so hard he can barely think.

He rolls out of bed with a gruff ‘good morning’ and escapes to the shower to jerk off before he loses his fucking mind and fucks a werewolf. Or tries, anyway. Steve doesn’t seem particularly interested in that idea. He’d been sleeping on the floor rather than in his bed with him until asked, and even then he’d hesitated at the invitation. Until Bucky had assured him it was not an invitation to have sex.

Ugh. Stupid, sexy Steve and his not wanting to fuck. Vampires and werewolves don’t usually fuck each other, though. It’s not a rule or anything, it just doesn’t happen. The kinds are too different to mingle well, and there’s always been tension between them. The fighting over territory and killing each other kind, not the sexy kind. Also werewolves smell so godawful, no vamp would go near one to fuck one.

Except stupid, sexy, no-sex Steve and his magic ability to change his wolf-stink into the sexiest smell imaginable, and then have the audacity to sleep in Bucky’s bed and not want to have sex. What a fucking dick.

Bucky grumbles about this to himself in Russian as he pulls his hair back, then wraps his towel modestly around his waist before he steps out of the bathroom. Steve is not in his bedroom, however, so Bucky tosses the towel away and goes to his closet to dress.

He pulls on a pair of tight, slate colored jeans (which are absolutely a different color than the faded black ones and the charcoal grey ones), and chooses a close-fitting, dark-red henley thermal, which he leaves unbuttoned to the middle of his pectoral muscles. As he is lacing up his black boots, his phone vibrates with a text message. He picks it up and scowls at the screen.

**Steve:** Went home to shower and change. Meet you outside in a minute.

**Winter:** Steve how the fuck did you get my phone number

**Winter:** And how the fuck did your name get in my contacts

**Steve:** Clint did that so we could get in touch if we needed to. Wasn’t that nice of him?

**Winter:** Yeah remind me to thank him

**Steve:** I will! I’m outside now, when you’re ready. :)

Bucky grabs his black leather jacket and stuffs his phone into his pocket in disgust. Of course Steve uses fucking smiley emojis. He’s a fucking walking smiley emoji.

It occurs to him, as he is stepping out the door, that someone tried to get him killed last night, and nearly succeeded. And that someone is probably going to try to kill him again. And Steve wants to stop them from succeeding. As annoying and cheerful and emoji-using and no-sex-wanting as Steve is, he seems to genuinely be what he says. A friend. Maybe the only friend Bucky has.

And they are going to get his stupid tennis-ball back from the coffee shop right the fuck now.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

“Everything fucking stinks,” Bucky says, wrinkling his nose. “How the fuck do you live like this?”

“You get used to it,” Steve shrugs. “You learn to block out smells just like sounds. There’s a lot of sensory input to be constantly processing in the city, though. It can be hard to handle at first.”

“Ugh, you’re telling me,” Bucky grumbles. “I can smell every dumpster in the fucking neighborhood.” 

A group of young ladies walk past them at that moment, and he turns to glare at their backs, as if they’ve offered him a personal insult.

“And since when do women wear so much perfume? It smells like embalming fluid made of rotten fruit.”

“I don’t understand why anyone covers their natural scent,” Steve says, shaking his head disapprovingly. “It just makes them seem like they’ve got something to hide.”

Bucky opens his mouth to answer, then suddenly doubles over, clutching his ears. Steve laughs and pats his shoulder until the city bus has thundered away down the street.

“You gotta filter, Buck,” he says, as they continue on. “Just like you do with your vampire senses, but…you know. More.”

Without intending to, Bucky lifts his head sharply and sniffs the air, as the scent of ground coffee beans rises like a strain of sweet music above the cacophony of other smells.

“The coffee shop,” Steve grins. “I smell it, too. Coffee is great, isn’t it?”

As he opens the door to enter Heart of Darkness, the rich, earthy aroma washes over Bucky like a purifying stream. He breathes deeply, grateful to cleanse the stinking, rotten stench of the city from his sinuses. This is why Steve likes coffee so much. It smells fucking amazing. The red-haired young woman from yesterday leans on the counter, with a sly smile on her crimson lips.

“Hey, Winter. Hey, goldilocks,” she says, winking at Steve. “How are the two prettiest boys in Brooklyn tonight?”

Steve flashes his sunbeam smile. “Hi, Tash! It’s nice to see you again. I came back soon, just like you said.”

“So you did. What a good boy.” She laughs as Steve’s cheeks flush pink and he looks bashfully at the ground. “Speaking of which, I have something that belongs to you.”

Steve’s blue eyes light up as she reaches under the counter and draws out his beloved, neon-green tennis ball. He practically bounds to catch it as she tosses it to him. Bucky finds he has to use all his willpower against the sudden urge to leap after it as well, which irritates him immensely. He tries to shake himself, but he can’t stop staring at the perfect, round, fuzzy, brightly-colored ball Steve is tossing into the air and catching like he’s the king of the goddamned universe.

Stupid, sexy wolf. That ball looks so fun.

“You still dying?” Tash asks, stepping over to the espresso machine.

“No, I’m…better,” Bucky says distractedly.

She rolls her eyes and turns back to Steve. “What about you, sunshine? What’s new with you?”

“Well, I’ve been hanging out with my friend Winter,” Steve says, tossing the ball up again. “Someone poisoned him and framed him for killing a guy, so I stayed at his apartment to protect him while he was sleeping today.”

“Steve, what the fuck!” Bucky sputters.

“But you knew all that already,” Steve says, catching the ball and looking keenly at Tash.

“I did,” she replies, with a tranquil smile.

“You—how?” Bucky says, dumbfounded.

She keeps looking at Steve. “I guess my cover’s about as blown as it’s gonna get. Who told? Barton?”

“Yep,” Steve says cheerfully. “He said we could trust you, and to meet him and Sam here after sunset. He said this was a safer place than Winter’s apartment, but I think he meant safe for them, more than safe for us.”

“Either way,” Tash shrugs. “No one hurts anyone here without my permission.”

Bucky stands there looking back and forth between Steve, Tash, and the ball. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to knock Steve down and wrest the ball from his grasp, but this urge is struggling for dominance in his mind with a feeling very much like he’d had in the alley last night. The feeling that he is being left out of something everyone else seems to know about. Some fragmented words about Howling Commandos and Captain Rogers whirl back into his mind.

“Someone tell me what the fuck is going on,” he says, in a strained voice. “Right the fuck now.”

“Tash is with Shield,” Steve explains, which explains nothing.

“I’m not exactly _with_ Shield,” Tash corrects. “I’m more of a free agent. I’ve been keeping an eye on you for them in exchange for…some little favors.”

“What the fuck is Shield!” Bucky says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “I never heard of it until those two asshole birds shot me with a fucking arrow last night! And why does everyone know Steve!”

“Anyone who’s anyone knows Steve,” she smirks. “In the supernatural intelligence sector, that is. He’s the reason Shield even exists.”

“Ok,” Bucky nods. “Ok, I’m done. Fuck you guys, goodbye.”

He pivots on his heel and starts for the door, but Steve stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Please don’t go,” he says, looking at him pleadingly with his stupid, bright-blue eyes. “I’ll explain everything, just give me a chance. Do you…want to hold the ball?”

Bucky glares up at him for a beat, then snatches the ball and collapses into a nearby chair. He sits there rolling it on the table between his hands as Tash carries his coffee over, and she and Steve sit at the table with him. He’s furious at both of them for being spying assholes who spy on people, but this ball really is fucking amazing. He has no idea why he doesn’t own one of these himself. A hundred of these. How many would it take to fill his apartment, a thousand?

“Ok, so…where do we start,” Steve says, biting his bottom lip.

“Why don’t you start with the lying and pretending to be my friend so you could spy on me,” Bucky mutters. “That seems like a good jumping-off point.”

Steve recoils physically, as if Bucky has struck him. “I am your friend, Buck. I didn’t lie to you.”

“Really, Steve?” Bucky sneers. “Because it looks to me like you and whatever her real name is and the cockatoo twins have been doing a whole fucking lot of lying.”

“I have nothing to do with them,” Steve insists, looking genuinely hurt. “I found out they were watching you last night, just like I told you. I swear.”

Bucky fixes his eyes on the ball, because it’s pretty much the best ball in the world, and because it’s hard enough not to believe Steve’s stupid, sincere voice without seeing his stupid, earnest face too.

“Ok, Steve. Sure,” he says drily. “That’s why they put their weapons away the minute they heard your name, and told you all kinds of private shit about me, and why _she_ says you’re the whole reason Shield exists. Because you have nothing to do with them. Sounds totally plausible.”

“He is the reason Shield exists, but he’s not with them,” Tash puts in. “They’ve been trying to find him for decades, actually.”

Bucky frowns. How old is Steve? He’d assumed he was very young, but decades? He must be older than he looks. He’s too angry to admit he’s curious, though, so he keeps rolling his ball and looking studiously at not Steve.

“The Howling Commandos are the reason Shield exists, not me,” Steve sighs. “They were good men. They gave their lives in service to this country. Shield was created by the team of humans involved in putting the unit together and supporting us on deployments with the Army.”

“Humans?” Bucky asks, before he can stop himself. Damn it. 

“Human handlers,” Tash answers. “The Howling Commandos were all werewolves.”

“I don’t…understand,” Bucky says. “How did the Army recruit a bunch of werewolves? _Why_ did they recruit a bunch of werewolves?”

“They didn’t,” Steve says flatly. “They made us.”

Bucky blinks, taken aback. “How the fuck does a human government make werewolves?”

“The how is complicated, and involves a whole lot of science and the dark arts that I don’t understand. The why was all that mattered to me. The Nazis were using supernatural creatures to terrorize frontline troops, disrupt covert communications, and kill our spies. The US needed a response. We were the response.”

The full weight of what Steve is saying suddenly hits Bucky at once. “You…you let them turn you into a monster…to fight in World War II?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it was the right thing to do. I put on the uniform and did what was required of me, just like all the men and women who served. What was required of me was a little different, is all.”

Bucky blinks at him uncomprehendingly, then looks down at the ball again. It really is a good ball. This thought soothes him somewhat, but it doesn’t help him make sense of the insanity he’s become embroiled in.

“Why didn’t you join Shield?” Tash asks Steve. “They built the whole thing around you and you just disappeared.”

“Because I had done my part and I was through taking orders,” Steve says, as close to bitterly as he is capable of. “While I was away being shown off to some high-ranking officials, my unit was ambushed and captured by an S.S. squad, led by fanatics. The Army wouldn’t send in a rescue team to save a bunch of werewolves, so I disobeyed orders and went in alone. By the time I got to them, they had all been killed.”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Bucky says miserably. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

Almost as a reflex, he rolls the ball across the table to Steve, who catches it and smiles softly.

“Thanks, Buck,” he says. “That means a lot to me.”

“Where’d you go, anyway?” Tash says, picking up the thread. “I always wondered why they couldn’t find you.”

Steve squeezes the ball between his palms and looks away out the window. “I went…underground.”

Bucky stares at him in undisguised astonishment. He’d thought going underground was a thing exclusive to vampires. When the burden of existence begins to weigh too heavily on an old one, they will sometimes bury themselves deep in the earth and sleep for years, maybe decades. But it takes an incredible act of will to do it. Very few vampires he’s heard of have even tried, and they were ancient. How the fuck powerful is this wolf?

“The Howling Commandos, my pack, they were all I had,” Steve continues. “After the war, I was alone. I couldn’t take the grief and loneliness and I just…went under. I’ve only been awake for a couple of years.”

“You’ve been underground for almost seventy years?” Bucky exclaims. “What the fuck, Steve! Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“We’ve been kind of busy with other things, Buck,” Steve says. “I would’ve told you, when I got a chance.”

“What brought you back?” Tash asks. “Why’d you wake up?”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t know. But I must’ve clawed my way out in my sleep, because the first thing I remember is waking up naked in the middle of a field, covered in dirt, with some farmer poking me with a pitchfork and yelling at me in German.”

“You went under in Germany?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Switzerland,” Steve grins. “It was the 1940’s. I never would’ve buried myself in German soil.”

“Ok…ok,” Bucky says, raking his fingers through his hair. “You’re a hundred-year-old werewolf soldier. I can deal with that. But what the fuck is Shield?”

“Shield is a covert organization dedicated to monitoring and containing supernatural threats,” Tash explains. “As it turns out, humans are not very good at judging what among the supernatural constitutes a threat, and what is just an ordinary fae trying to pay his bills and raise his kids. Thus, Shield is overseen, run, and staffed almost entirely by supernaturals, with some trustworthy human allies.”

“And this organization thinks I’m a threat that needs to be contained?” Bucky says irritably. “That’s why you’ve been spying on me?”

“Something like that,” Tash says, with one of her infuriatingly cunning looks. “They know how old and how powerful you are. But they also know how to read police reports and monitor crime. When you moved back into your building, they waited and watched. Sure enough, bodies started showing up in the morgues. The odd thing was, they kept turning out to be scumbags. Your neighborhood started cleaning up. Got safer for families. They set me up here to make sure it stays that way.”

“How are you supposed to do that?” Bucky smirks. “You gonna throw hot coffee on me if I get out of line?”

“Uh…Buck,” Steve says, laughing nervously. “Please don’t insult the nice demon lady.”

Bucky opens his mouth and closes it, then swallows hard. “Demon?”

Tash flashes a wicked smile. An actual wicked smile. Razorblade teeth and ink-black sclera around hellfire-red irises wicked. Bucky’s limbs liquefy as a halo of flame wreaths her head. The mingled scents of cordite and brimstone burn in his nostrils, making his eyes water. He hears a strange sound and looks down at the table, where she’s lazily drumming her long, black claws. Then, as suddenly as it began, the vision dissipates, and she’s the beautiful, green-eyed redhead again.

“Holy fucking shit you’re a demon,” Bucky breathes, when he has regained command of his voice. “Why couldn’t I tell? Why couldn’t I smell it on you?”

“Well, at least he’s pretty,” Tash says to Steve. “I’m half demon. Not a full demon. If I was that, I wouldn’t be stuck here on the material plane babysitting your kinds. And you couldn’t tell because I can conceal myself from you lesser hybrids when I want to. No offense.”

“None taken,” Steve smiles affably, earning a look from Bucky.

“What about the asshole birds who shot me?” Bucky asks Tash. “They’re not demons too, are they?”

“Why don’t you ask them yourself,” she says, nodding toward the window.

Bucky turns to see the two assholes in question, approaching the glass door. Steve hops up to greet them enthusiastically as they step inside, stinking like fucking bird and looking extremely pleased with themselves.

He sits there glowering as they both lean down to kiss Tash’s cheek and say how great it is to see her and what a long time it’s been and remember that wild thing in Borneo with the naga shaman? We still owe you one, Tash.

Stupid fucking bird spies and wolf soldiers and demon baristas. His fangs are aching with the thirst, and he wishes Steve would give him the goddamned ball back. Ooh, maybe they can have the rest of this conversation in the park and throw the ball around! Wait…the park? What the fuck?

Ugh. Stupid fucking wolf blood. This shit better wear off soon. 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

“It’s not a literal hydra, right?” Bucky asks uneasily.

“Hey, Sam!” Steve calls out, as he pitches the ball to him. “It’s not a literal hydra, right?”

“Nah, that’s just their dumbass name,” Sam calls back, tossing the ball to Clint. “I guess they think it’s scary or something.”

Bucky’s hand stops the ball mid-trajectory, as it comes flying directly at his face.

“Nice catch,” Clint grins. “You’re pretty fast.”

“I know I’m fast I’m a fucking vampire,” Bucky grumbles, sending the ball sailing in a high arc over to Steve. “What do these Hydra people want with me? What did I ever do to them?”

“You’d know better than us,” Sam says. “You’re the one who—”

He breaks off at a warning look from Clint and tosses him the ball. Bucky narrows his eyes and looks back and forth between them. The ball flies toward his face again, but his arm whips out like a cobra striking and sends it careening far across the park.

“I got it!” Steve shouts, as he bounds off after it.

“I’m the one who what,” Bucky says, stepping menacingly toward Sam.

Sam and Clint look at each other, then back at Bucky.

“I just meant you’re the one who’s an evil undead guy,” Sam says. “So you’d know more about what other evil guys want than we would.”

“You know what I’m getting sick of, bird?” Bucky asks, in a quietly venomous tone, as he moves closer. “Being lied to.”

Sam’s enormous wings materialize behind his back and unfurl defensively. “And I’m getting sick of being called ‘bird’ by some bloodsucking hellspawn.”

“I call you bird because you stink like bird and you have huge fucking bird wings. What are you anyway, some kind of weregoose?”

“It’s none of your business what I am,” Sam says, crossing his arms.

“Got it,” Bucky nods. “Weregoose.”

“I’ll weregoose you, Count Dorkula! Why don’t you say that to my face?”

“I am saying it to your face! I’m standing right here!”

“Come on, you two,” Clint breaks in, stepping between them. “We’re all on the same team, here. Let’s try to get along, ok?”

“He started it,” Sam explains.

“I did not,” Bucky counters.

“Boys, play nice,” Tash chides, looking up from her book. “And no using hellspawn as a derogatory term. People have feelings.”

“Sorry, Tash,” Sam, Bucky, and Clint say in unison.

“Sam is not a bird, Winter.” She closes her book, which dissolves into black vapor and whirls away, as she rises from the bench upon which she’s been lounging. “He’s one of the last remaining Elioud. The children of the Nephilim.”

Bucky makes a face. “Nephilim…wait, are you telling me this asshole is an angel?”

“No,” Sam retorts. “I’m not a fucking angel and shut up.”

“He’s a descendant of fallen angels, emphasis on the fallen,” Tash says, with a wink at Sam. “Which is why we get along so well. I wouldn’t be caught dead hanging around with one of those uptight seraphim.”

“I bet you wouldn’t,” Clint mutters, under his breath.

“What was that?” Tash asks.

“Hm? Nothing,” Clint says innocently. “Uptight seraphim. Yuck. Who needs ‘em, I say.”

Tash rolls her eyes. “As I was saying, Sam’s not a bird. He smells like bird to you because of Clint.”

“But Clint’s not a bird at all,” Bucky says. “He doesn’t even have wings. What am I missing, here?”

“He doesn’t have wings in his human form, no. Clint is what the Lakota people call a Čhetáŋ. A hawk spirit.”

“Hawk spirit associated with good vision, speed, dedication, and the east,” Clint elaborates. “But yeah, what she said.”

“But you’re…white,” Bucky falters. “Shouldn’t you, like…look Native American?”

“Wow, racist,” Sam says, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

Clint squints as if he doesn’t grasp Bucky’s meaning. “I’m a hawk spirit, not a person. Why would I be a certain race?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, with an exasperated sigh. “Tash said Lakota people. I assumed it was a cultural thing.”

“Oh, I see,” Clint says. “This is just my current human form. I manifest in a different one every couple decades.”

“Yeah,” Sam adds. “And we’re trying something new right now, so don’t kink-shame us.”

“I don’t—wait, kink shame?” Bucky says, now utterly at a loss.

Sam grins mischievously. “Cause I was curious about being with a white dude.”

“These two are married,” Tash says, coming to Bucky’s rescue. “And they’re both total pains in the ass. Stop busting his balls, you turds, he’s confused enough. Speaking of balls, here comes Steve. Everyone pretend you were being good.”

“Hey, guys!” Steve beams, as he trots up with the now-begrimed tennis-ball.

“Steve, where have you been?” Bucky asks, making a disgusted grimace. “And why do you smell like actual dog?”

“Oh, I made some new friends!” Steve says excitedly. “Their names are Dusty and Waffles and they were out walking with their human and they found my ball and we had so much fun playing with it together! Then their human—her name is Sharon—she said it was time to go inside, but she gave me her phone number so we can play again sometime. Isn’t that nice? People here are so friendly.”

Tash arches an eyebrow. “I bet they are. Particularly the female people.”

“What?” Steve asks, as Clint and Sam burst into laughter. “Why is that funny?”

“Goldilocks, you are so goddamned adorable,” Tash sighs. “I’d swear you’re doing it on purpose, except I know you’re not.”

“I’m not adorable!” Steve contends. “People are friendly to me because I’m friendly. I don’t see what them being male or female has to do with it.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “She wants to have sex with you, Steve.”

“Sharon?” Steve says, taken aback. “No, she doesn’t. She said Dusty and Waffles have been sad since she and her boyfriend broke up, and it would be nice to have a guy come over and pay attention to them.”

“Yeah, she’s tryina fuck,” Sam informs him.

“Yep,” Clint seconds.

“She is,” Tash confirms.

“If she wanted to have sex, why wouldn’t she just say it?” Steve frowns. “Why would she lie to me?”

“That’s not really lying, Steve,” Tash laughs. “There are a lot of complicated social rules about sex that humans are expected to follow. Especially females. Human women are not allowed to admit they want to have sex, like, almost ever.”

Steve looks at his other three companions. “Is that true?”

Sam, Clint, and Bucky all nod.

“Well, that’s not very fair,” Steve says indignantly. “A woman should be allowed to be honest about what she wants, just as much as a man.”

“Totally unfair,” Sam, Clint, and Bucky agree amongst themselves. “Ridiculous. Sexist. Medieval.”

“You’re right, it’s not fair,” Tash smiles. “You’ll make a very good feminist one day, Stevelet.”

“Feminist?” Steve asks, looking more confused than ever. “What’s a feminist?”

“Right, you’ve been asleep for most of the century,” Tash says musingly. “Well, Winter can teach you all about feminism later. Right now, we really need to discuss our little Hydra problem.”

“I don’t know how much we can do about it tonight,” Steve says, instantly back in Captain Rogers mode. “Until we have better intel, we won’t even know where the threat is coming from. Unless they make another attempt, which I don’t think is likely. We’ll keep our eyes open, but if they’ve been watching him, they know he’s not alone, now. Which means they’ll want to send in an organized assault. Maybe heavies. Hawkeye, anything on the origin of the herbs they found in Riley’s system?”

“Nothing yet, Cap,” Clint says. “The lab guys are gonna call me the minute they have any new information.”

“Good,” Steve nods. “Keep me posted. Falcon, what about surveillance? Any luck with those cameras?”

Sam shakes his head. “Camera in the alley wasn’t even plugged into anything, so no dice. The ones inside didn’t help much either. He didn’t talk to anyone but Winter and he didn’t leave his drinks alone. Whoever did this got the poison into him before he went to the club. Intel is combing his phone and email records, and our forensics guys have already been over every molecule of his apartment. Nothing.”

“Any wolves on forensics?” Steve asks.

“Uh…there aren’t any wolves with Shield at all,” Sam says awkwardly.

“Why not?”

“Most wolves are…well, they’re not like you.”

“Like me?”

“He means they can’t control the transformation,” Tash says. “As far as we know, that ability is unique to you and the Howling Commandos. One of the reasons the process was so complex, apparently.”

“Right,” Steve says, looking away thoughtfully. “I remember something about that. Ok, well I’d say the next step is getting me into his place to go over it myself. No offense to your forensics guys, but I might find something they didn’t.”

“There’s just one problem, Cap,” Clint says. “Since you’re not officially working with Shield, we can’t help you get in. And we can’t get vouch for you with local law enforcement if you get caught.”

Bucky’s lips curl in an icy smile. “That won’t be a problem.”

“How you do it is up to you guys,” Clint says, looking at him warily. “But we’d prefer no civilian casualties.”

“Christ, why does everyone always jump right to murder?” Bucky sighs. “I meant no one who sees us will remember. Vampire powers.”

“I’m texting you Riley’s address,” Sam says to Steve. “Be careful. And call us if anything happens. We’ll be patrolling, so we won’t be far.”

“What about you, Tash?” Steve asks. “You’ll be…doing whatever it is you do?”

“Yep. And if you need me, I’ll know.” With that, Tash simply vanishes, as if someone flipped a switch.

Steve blinks at the spot she’d been standing for a moment, then laughs. “Wow. She’s pretty amazing. We’ll see you guys soon. Let’s go, Buck.”

 

As they walk along through the tree-lined park, Bucky is silent and withdrawn, and can’t be coaxed to toss and catch the ball, despite Steve’s most enticing attempts to show him how fun it is. Not wanting to annoy him, Steve contents himself to play with ball alone, but he’s disappointed that his friend seems to have lost interest in it. It’s pretty much the best ball in the world.

He wonders if Dusty and Waffles have left some scent on it that Bucky finds objectionable. But that’s not possible. They were some of the friendliest smelling dogs he’s ever met. Maybe their human did? She had been covered in an awful lot of chemical scents. Laundry detergent, dryer sheets, perfume, that sticky spray women put on their hair to make it behave. He could even smell the mineral oil and beeswax in whatever the pink stuff was she had slicked on her lips. She didn’t even touch the ball, though, so it can’t be that.

Maybe this is a vampire thing. Maybe they like to just be around their friends and not talk. Steve can’t imagine not wanting to talk to your friends whenever you could, but he’s not a vampire, so he can’t really say what they like. Bucky does seem to have a lot of peculiar habits and preferences.

Or maybe he’s feeling upset. The things that have been happening would be a lot to process all at once, like this. Steve would normally know exactly how Bucky is feeling, but he’s been making a concerted effort not to intrude on him in that way, and thus has been tuning out the majority of his scent signals. He decides he’d better try some subtlety.

“Hey, Buck,” he says, as they are crossing the street southbound from the park. “I’m worried that you’re upset. How are you feeling?”

“What?” Bucky scowls. “No, I’m not upset. Why are you worried about how I’m feeling?”

“Because we’re friends. I care and I want to help, if I can.”

“You’re going with me to break into a dead guy’s apartment to try and find out who wants to kill me. You’re helping enough, Steve.”

“Oh. Well, if I can do anything else, just tell me, ok?”

Bucky smiles and shakes his head. “Why are you like this, Steve? Is it because of the wolf stuff?”

Steve tosses the ball and catches it thoughtfully, as if that’s a possible thing.

“Kind of,” he says. “They told me everything about who I am would be amplified by being a wolf. So, I guess I’m like me with all the knobs turned way up.”

“So, you’re you, but louder,” Bucky smirks. “Who were you before? Who was Steve one-point-o.”

“I was a kid,” Steve says. “I tried to join the Army a bunch of times, but they wouldn’t let me, because I was…I wasn’t fit for service. Then this scientist guy came and offered me another chance.”

“You look pretty fucking fit to me,” Bucky says, eyeing him up and down.

Steve shrugs dismissively. “This is all the wolf. My body, I mean. I wasn’t like this before. I had all kinds of health problems and I was…smaller. I don’t really want to talk about this.”

“Sorry.”

They walk in silence for another block or so, then Bucky casts a sidelong glance at his tall, handsome companion, to find a troubled look in his bright-blue eyes.

“Steve, stop worrying about the dogs. You’ll see them soon, I’m sure.”

“Hm?” Steve says, looking at him suddenly, as if he’s coming out of a trance. “Oh, no, it wasn’t that. Though, that is a problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, I have to call their human, because I said I would, but I don’t want her to think it’s because I want to have sex with her.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t. But if I tell her honestly that I don’t, it’ll hurt her feelings. But I can’t lie to her, either.”

“That’s why I don’t talk to anyone. People are nothing but trouble.”

“This is a nightmare. What do I do?”

“I don’t know, Steve,” Bucky says wearily. “Why don’t you just have sex with her? It’ll make her happy and you’ll get to see your dog friends. Everyone wins.”

Steve’s jaw sets and his blonde brow furrows. “That would be a really bad reason to have sex with someone.”

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky laughs, then his expression changes. “Oh, you’re not. Christ. Don’t dig into my history, then. I’ve fucked people for way worse reasons.”

Steve looks at him apprehensively. “Like what?”

“Well, mostly because I was drunk and they were hot and I really wanted to.”

“Oh,” Steve says, relaxing somewhat. “That doesn’t sound like a worse reason.”

“It doesn’t? It wasn’t very virtuous of me, though.”

“I’m not a puritan, Buck. Having sex with someone because you really want to is a perfectly good reason. Doing it because you’re too much of a coward to tell them you _don’t_ want to is a bad one. And I just solved my own problem. I’m going to tell Sharon I’d like to hang out with her and Dusty and Waffles, and make it clear that sex is not part of the deal.”

“Good. Let me know how that goes.”

“I will.”

“Hey, how much further is this place? If I don’t get my teeth into something soon, I’m going to lose it. I’m already shaking.”

“I keep forgetting how often you need to eat,” Steve says, glancing around. “There are a lot of bars around here. Do you want to stop at one and grab a quick bite?”

“Yeah, I—Steve. Tell me you did not just make the worst joke in the history of jokes.”

“I absolutely did not,” Steve says solemnly, as they walk into a lively pub. “I just made a very funny joke.”

“It was the worst, Steve. Literally the actual worst. If jokes were prosecutable offenses, you’d be a felon now. You’d be in jail for joke assault like you deserve.”

“Yeah, yeah, go put your vamp whammy on some unsuspecting mortal and drink their blood. We have shit to do.”

“I’m about to,” Bucky says. Then he looks up at Steve, biting his bottom lip. “You want to watch?”

Steve looks theatrically offended. “Please, Buck, what do you take me for? Of course I want to watch.”

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

 

A middle-aged man in a baseball cap, studiously watching whatever inane sports game is on the television. A young woman in a pale yellow t-shirt and blue jeans, sitting on her boyfriend’s lap. A group of tipsy thirty-somethings clearly having a ‘girls night out’ away from the kids and husbands they can’t stand to look at another minute.

Who or what they are matters little. All that matters is the blood. It pulses in their veins and warms their bodies, and with every heartbeat, it cries out to the demon. Like the blood of Abel cried out to God from the earth, which had opened its mouth to receive his blood from his brother’s hand.

A couple of bleached-blonde coeds smile at him as he approaches the bar. He’s beautiful, of course they do. Long eyelashes over large, sad, green eyes, pouting, cupid’s bow lips, and a jawline that could cut glass. Sorry Kylie and Katie, he’s already got his mark. He has since he walked in the door.

Yellow shirt girl’s boyfriend, a tall, solidly-built young man with dark blonde hair and far too much of the Irish tendency toward redness of the face. His body is muscular, but bears a layer of softness that suggests football in high school didn’t quite get him that scholarship. He passes the bar on his way to the men’s room.

The hunter follows. He reclines against the wall and waits for him to finish using the urinal (for fuck’s sake, Dan, how much piss can one bladder even contain). He doesn’t even pretend not to watch him as he goes to the sink to wash his hands. It takes a lot for human beings to actually get confrontational. This one is a college boy who’s had a few, though, so it’ll be a shorter fuse for him.

Dan the Irish college boy glares at death in the mirror and shuts off the water. “The fuck are you looking at, bro?”

The hunter tilts his head languidly to one side and bites his pouting bottom lip. If Dan possessed a few more brain cells and a little less testosterone, he’d know a serpent when he saw it. What he sees instead, is a man of a slightly smaller build than his own, who is violating all kinds of social rules about how men look and behave and interact with other men.

The man’s long hair and lithely muscular body, and alluring, almost feminine face set all kinds of conflicting ideas spinning in Dan’s beer-muddled brain, which registers the default result: aggression.

Thus disordered, Dan turns to face the hunter. “What’s your fucking problem, man?”

He looks back as the door swings open, admitting a big, blonde, non-confusingly masculine man. This is the type of man who would usually be on Dan’s side in the social self-policing of conformity that is standard among young, human males. He returns his attention to the long-haired man with the green eyes, who is still gazing fixedly at him. As such, he doesn’t see the muscular blonde lock the bathroom door and lean on it, curiously observing the scene.

“Come here,” the long-haired man says softly, as if it’s an invitation.

It is not an invitation. It is an imperative. Dan’s head feels suddenly fuzzy and hot. His arms turn to lead and hang slack at his sides. He watches dumbly as his feet step toward this man of their own accord. As if he’s being drawn on a leash. This makes him angry. His will revolts. His face turns even redder as he struggles against the compulsion with all his strength.

It’s a valiant effort. He winds up standing in front of the confusingly beautiful, masculine but in a nonstandard way man, puffing and perspiring with exertion. Green eyes look up at him from beneath long eyelashes.

“Why are you so angry, Dan?” the man asks, in a low, husky voice.

His voice is the sweetest, most beautiful sound Dan has ever heard. Like a thousand Faith Hills singing the national anthem at the Superbowl (Dan’s experience of aesthetic rapture being admittedly limited). He has no idea why he was angry. He doesn’t feel angry anymore. He feels like he wants to cry, which makes no sense, because his team isn’t losing and his dad isn’t drunk.

“I…I don’t know,” he says thickly. “How do you…know my name?”

His tongue feels like concrete in his mouth. And when the fuck did it get so hot in here? He tugs petulantly at the collar of his t-shirt, which suddenly feels like it’s strangling him. The beautiful man reaches out and lays a hand on his cheek. It’s ice cold. Dan leans into it without meaning to. It feels so good against his fevered skin, he almost wants to cry again.

“Good boy,” the man hums. “Closer.”

Dan’s body tips forward. Strong arms close around him like a steel cage. His forehead drops onto the man’s shoulder, and he sighs a deep, shuddering sigh. He’s far past the point of resisting. He’s not even wondering what’s happening to him anymore. He doesn’t care. This is the best thing he’s ever felt. The utter bliss of surrender. The poignant relief of submitting to a will greater than his own by orders of magnitude that stagger his C-average mind.

“You’re going to be ok, Dan,” the cold, green-eyed man purrs into his ear. “You’re going to finish college. Get a stable job. Get married and have kids and be good to your wife. And you’re going to stop fucking drinking.”

“Ok,” Dan mumbles.

His head feels like it’s filling with wet sand. He feels the man’s ice-cold cheek on his neck. A brief, sharp pain. He gasps and grabs the man’s shirt with both hands. His legs give out, but the man’s hands tighten like steel pincers on his waist and shoulder, supporting his full weight as easily as if he’s a child. For some reason he doesn’t have the presence of mind to give a damn about, his dick is suddenly rock hard and chafing against his briefs.

The icy needles sink in deeper. Dan’s heart runs ragged. His body quakes with pleasure so profound, tears actually spill out of his eyes. He makes a strangled sound in his throat as he comes so hard he sees stars, and immediately blacks out.

Bucky pulls away, reeling and breathless, green eyes lit from within like fiery gems. His skin is flushed and warm with blood, and his lips are rosy and bruised. He nicks his tongue with a fang and licks the bite wound on the human’s neck to heal it, then lowers him to floor, back propped up against the wall, as if he’d sat down there and fallen asleep. When he turns around, Steve is staring at him with his big, stupid bright-blue eyes.

“That was—hunting,” Bucky pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s what I do.”

“Holy shit, Buck,” Steve breathes. “That was amazing.”

Bucky frowns. “What? What do you mean?”

“I mean the way you talked to him and held him. It was so…gentle and intimate. I thought it’d be way more violent.”

“Well, I did put my thrall on him and steal a lot of his blood, but I know what you mean. Bites can be violent and painful, that’s just not the way I do things. I don’t get off on terrorizing them like some vamps do.”

“Did he—when you were, um…” Steve trails off and blushes to the ears.

“You mean did he come in his pants?” Bucky smirks. “Yeah, that happens. All he’ll remember is passing out on the men’s room floor, and having an incredibly intense wet-dream while he was unconscious.”

“Did you?”

“What? No. Gross, Steve.”

“You just said he did, why is it gross to wonder if you might have too?”

“It’s not,” Bucky grins. “I was just fucking with you. The bite is extremely intimate and sensual for us, too, but it’s only sexual if we’re into the person that way. I am not sexually attracted to Dan.”

They open the bathroom door to find the bartender crouched there with a screwdriver, and several impatient-looking men crowded around him. They stare right past Bucky and Steve, as if they don’t see them, moving mechanically out of the way and exclaiming about who’s that drunk idiot passed out on the floor, god damn it. He must’ve locked it. Was he with anyone? Go tell her to haul his ass out of here before I call the cops.

“What was that thing you did,” Steve asks, as they step out into the street. “When you said he was gonna be ok and to finish college and all that stuff?”

“That’s just something we can do,” Bucky shrugs. “It’s like…a really strong post-hypnotic suggestion. I don’t always do it, but it seemed like he needed it.”

“What’ll it do to him?”

“Well, when he wakes up, he’s going to have the worst hangover he’s ever had, and his girlfriend will probably be pissed at him for being a drunk jackass. But he’ll also find himself thinking seriously about his prospects after college, and he’ll swear that he is never fucking drinking again. I’d say on balance, his life will be better for it. Better than dying at twenty-two because some monster was hungry and he wandered into their orbit, at least.”

“Yeah, a lot better,” Steve says. “Wow.”

They walk in silence for a while, then Bucky sighs. “Ok, what’s the big stupid grin about, Steve?”

“I was right,” Steve chirps.

“About what?”

“You’re a nice person, just like I said.”

“Ugh, I am not,” Bucky scowls. “I’m arrogant and self-centered and I don’t like anyone, and that’s how I like it.”

“You don’t like me?” Steve says, making his blue eyes as wide as possible.

“No.”

“Not even a little?” Steve coaxes.

“Not even a little. You’re annoying and you stink like wolf.”

“Are you suuuure?”

“Cut it out, you ass,” Bucky says, suppressing a smile. “You can’t bribe me with your stupid ball.”

“Can’t I?” Steve raises an eyebrow and holds out the ball, rolling it temptingly on his palm.

Bucky narrows his eyes and snatches it out of his hand. “Maybe a little.”

Steve beams and looks insufferably pleased with himself as Bucky tosses it in the air and catches it. Well, joke’s on you, Steve. Bucky doesn’t even care, cause he has the ball now. It really is the best ball in the world.

“So, do you usually bite men?” Steve asks.

“Yep,” Bucky says. “They’re generally bigger, which means higher blood volume. I can drink more without killing them.”

“Oh. That’s wise.”

“What?”

“What, what?”

“Why are you being weird all the sudden?”

“I’m not. It just seems like you kind of…have a type.”

“A type?”

“Dan and Riley were both young, blonde men.”

“That’s a pretty small population sample to judge from, Steve. I bite all kinds of—” Bucky pauses and frowns thoughtfully, as he recalls his last twenty or so victims. There is a disproportionate number of young, blonde men represented among them. Sixteen out of twenty disproportionate. “Shit, I do have a type. Well, what do you know.”

“I figured Riley was chosen specifically to lure you. And they sent him to the club you like to go to. That must mean they’ve been watching you for a while.”

“If they were watching me and Tash was, too, why didn’t she notice? Isn’t that sort of her job?”

“I don’t think her deal with Shield was to protect you. It seemed more like she was just there to make sure you didn’t suddenly start murdering a bunch of innocent people.”

“Why the fuck would they think I’d do that? I mean…ok, it’s not like I don’t have a history of doing that, but I haven’t in years and years. When I came back to the neighborhood, I made things better. I bet I’ve made their jobs easier, come to think of it.”

“Maybe they think the fact that you’re old and powerful is enough to warrant it.”

“Maybe. Sam said something weird, though.”

“Oh, when you asked what Hydra would want with you and he said you’d know better than they would? I thought that was weird, too. I didn’t get to hear the rest cause you batted the ball away and then I met Dusty and Waffles.”

“Well, you didn’t miss anything. We got into an argument and then you came back.”

“What is it with you and Sam?” Steve laughs. “I’ve never seen two people so determined not to like each other. Clint’s the one who shot you and you’re not like that with him.”

“He’s just…an ass,” Bucky says, gesturing vaguely. “He’s a smug and self-satisfied and he called me Count Dorkula, and I hate him.”

“Count Dorkula!” Steve says, failing to stifle a laugh. “I mean—that’s totally rude and inappropriate, you’re right.”

Bucky glowers at him and mutters something in Russian as they continue down the street.

“Hey, you do that a lot,” Steve says. “Where’d you learn to speak Russian?”

“I just…picked it up somewhere. I’ve been around a while. I speak a lot of languages.”

“Yeah, but you don’t use those ones when you’re mad. You use Russian.”

“Steve, are you going to be psychoanalyzing everything I do all night? Cause if so, I’m going to put in my airpods and ignore you.”

“Well I’m not, now,” Steve pouts. “I don’t like when you ignore me. Also, we’re here.”

They walk up the steps to the apartment building’s main entrance, which employs a security call-box. It’s much older than the one at Bucky’s building, and doesn’t have a video feature.

“I didn’t think about this,” Steve says. “How do we get in?”

Bucky scans the names on the call box, then punches in a number. After a moment, the door buzzes.

“That is so unsafe!” Steve exclaims. “Why would anyone do that?”

“People are stupid, Steve,” Bucky shrugs, as they walk inside.

They take the stairs to the third floor, and meander down the hall till they find number 342. Bucky reaches out to try the knob, but Steve grabs his arm to stop him.

“Wait, shouldn’t we knock?”

“The guy is dead, Steve,” Bucky says. “Who do you think is going to answer his door? Jesus?”

“No, but Shield might still have people around, right?”

“The birds didn’t say anything about it.”

At that moment, they hear the elevator open and footsteps approaching around the corner. After a few more seconds, a sandy haired, middle-aged woman appears, carrying a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. Bucky’s stomach turns. This must be one of the kid’s relatives.

She sees that the door they are standing by is Riley’s and frowns. “Can I help you boys?”

“Evening, ma’am,” Steve says, with respectfully subdued cheerfulness. “We’re friends of Riley. We just came by to pay our respects.”

She looks back and forth between them. “The memorial service is Wednesday. That would be a better time to do that, don’t you think?”

“Can’t,” Bucky says curtly, keeping his eyes on the floor.

She gazes at him for a moment. “I see. You’re one of those friends.”

“Ma’am?” Steve says, as she opens the door. “One of…what friends?”

“He’s a vampire, right?” she says, nodding to Bucky. “From Riley’s group?”

Steve opens his mouth to frame a response.

“Yes,” Bucky says.

Despite his bafflement at Bucky’s casual revelation of his vampire nature to this stranger, and her casual awareness of it, Steve doesn’t have it in him to be impolite, and is already taking the stack of boxes to carry them in for her. She precedes him inside, but Bucky stands in the hall, still staring at the floor.

“Oh, right. Come on in,” she says to him. “Don’t take anything without asking, though. Stan and Cynthia want to give most of his things to his younger brothers.”

Bucky steps in warily, casting his eyes about the small, studio apartment, as if assailants may spring from the walls and attack him. The woman looks him up and down, then shakes her head as she sets about constructing one of the boxes.

“I’m aunt Gina, by the way,” she says to Steve. “What about you? Are you one of those roleplayers too?”

It finally dawns upon Steve that this woman thinks Bucky is a pretend vampire. Who apparently takes his make-believe very seriously. He and Riley must have spoken about this when they met the other night.

“No, ma’am,” Steve says. “My name’s Steve. I’m a friend of his through Sam.”

“Sam is such a good boy,” she smiles. “He’s been taking care of everything. You really should come to the service. He’s giving the eulogy, you know.”

“I will, ma’am,” Steve nods. “Our vampire friend won’t be able to, unfortunately.”

“I understand. Those kids take their roles so seriously. There are a few of them who aren’t coming. They said it’d be disrespectful to Riley’s memory to break character.”

Steve glances up at Bucky, who is gazing at a framed picture on Riley’s rather cluttered desk, depicting him and Sam Wilson in military uniforms, giving a cheerful thumbs-up to the camera. Those are real military uniforms, however, and the background is clearly a village in some middle-eastern nation. Sam hadn’t mentioned his military service. And how does someone like Sam even get into the military? Maybe Shield worked with them on a mission, or something.

Bucky stands in a daze, staring blankly at a photograph of a young man he’d had a role in causing to die violently. The woman’s voice cuts into his brain like a chainsaw as she chats blithely away to Steve, and the scent and presence of the dead boy are crushing him from all sides. He can’t breathe. He couldn’t, if he needed to, at least. It’s either get out of here or tear all his skin off. He wavers briefly, then turns abruptly and stalks out of the apartment.

He hears Steve apologizing for him as he vanishes down the hall, and the woman expressing her understanding. He descends the stairs rapidly and shoves the front door open with a bang, intent on nothing but getting out of that apartment as quickly as he can.

The sickly-sweet heaviness of grief, the messy artifacts of a human life, scattered about for the living to collect and redistribute. It makes him physically ill. The possessions of the dead should be burned in every culture, the way the Romani do.

He is standing on the sidewalk, chafing his hands together anxiously, when his keen, demon’s senses kick into high alert, screaming danger. Instinct takes over and he instantly dissipates his physical form into black vapor. Almost simultaneously, there is a blinding flash and he feels himself struck out of the air, which shouldn’t even be possible.

His body reintegrates and falls heavily onto the concrete sidewalk. He is on his feet faster than sight, but massive, impossibly strong hands are already coiled around his arms, pinning him from behind, as sturdy restraints are clapped onto his wrists. He opens his mouth to cry out.

His voice dies in his throat. He stands there trembling in uncomprehending terror. Unable to fight. Unable to call for help. Unable to see anything but the man standing before him, looking him over with cool disdain.

“Zdravstvuyte, soldat,” the man says, in a weathered, craggy voice.

A heavy steel collar closes around his neck with a sharp snap. He is shoved roughly toward a black SUV that has pulled up to the curb. The back door opens, and the strong hands lift him off his feet and toss him onto his face on the floor. He hears the doors slam shut. Feels the vehicle speeding away down the street. Taking him away from Steve. His only friend in the world.

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

 

“I thought you said Hydra were fanatics,” Steve says. “Fanatics believe supernatural creatures are abominations. Why would they be using them?”

“After WWII, most of the fanatics were dispersed or destroyed,” Tash replies, sliding a file across the table to him. “During the Cold War, factions started to spring up in the USSR. Apparently the new leadership wanted to avoid what happened to the old guard, and decided to change tactics. Fight fire with fire.”

“Where I come from, that’s called hypocrisy. And fundamentalists who abandon their own ideology are heretics.”

“It’s only heresy to believers. The new Hydra seems to be more about human supremacy. Controlling the abominations rather than purging them outright.”

“Isn’t that basically what Shield is doing?”

“It's pretty much the opposite,” Sam says. “We’re all here voluntarily, and we’re working to protect people, supernatural or not. Hydra enslaves supernaturals and they don’t care who they have to hurt to get what they want.”

“What do they want?” Steve asks.

“Power,” Tash answers. “They want to enforce their version of order and shape the world according to their standards. If they need supernatural means to do it, that’s what they’ll use.”

“Seems to me there’s a lot of power right here in this room,” Steve says. “And from what you’ve told me, thousands of others like you. Why hasn’t Shield gone in and stamped them out?”

“That’s not as simple as it sounds. Until a few years ago, we didn’t believe they were still a credible threat. We’d run into cells here and there, but they didn’t seem to be communicating with each other. They seemed disorganized. Not unified under any one purpose. Lately, patterns have begun to emerge. We think what looked like disorganization back then was more like large-scale compartmentalization. And now it looks like they’re beginning to consolidate their assets for a big move.”

“And taking Bucky, this is part of that?”

“We think so, yes.”

“So they weren’t trying to get you to kill him. They were just trying to weaken him and take him. But if he was so important, why’d they let him go in the first place? Wouldn’t they keep an asset like that under lock and key?”

“We don’t think they let him go,” Tash says. “We think they lost him.”

“Lost him?” Steve frowns. “How? He’s been living in Brooklyn under his real name.”

“I don’t mean they didn’t know where he was. I mean they lost control of him and couldn’t get it back. For whatever reason, they must think they have a way to control him again. Otherwise, they’d be out of their minds to go anywhere near him.”

“What happens if they can control him?”

“Then we have to find out how and stop it,” Clint says. “If we can’t, we’ll have no choice but to put him down.”

Steve’s blue eyes flash warningly. “No one’s putting him down. I’m going to get him back, end of story.”

Tash slides another file across the table. Steve opens it and scans the first page, then his expression changes. As he reads on, his blue irises ignite and turn gold. The others watch him warily. He pores over the remainder of the file, turning each page with increasing reluctance. When he’s finished, he closes his eyes and takes slow, meditative breaths, until he feels his razor-tipped fangs recede. When he opens his eyes, they are blue again.

“You understand,” he says slowly, in a carefully controlled voice, “that if you had told me these things before, my course of action would have been different, and he would not have been captured.”

“We believed he would be safe with you,” Tash says. “We wanted to tell you, Steve. But we were not authorized to give you this information. Our hands were tied.”

Steve presses his palms to his eye sockets and takes a few more calming breaths. “He doesn’t even know why he speaks Russian. Why doesn’t he remember?”

“We don’t know,” Tash says, shaking her head. “It could be any number of things. Enchantment, hex, brain trauma, even PTSD. We thought it was best not to make him aware of the—”

“I understand that,” Steve interrupts. “Of course you wouldn’t want to tell him…this. But what do you think is going to happen to his mind when he…when they—”

His voice cracks with emotion and he breaks off, returning to his breathing exercise. Tash looks at Sam and Clint, then back at Steve.

“Steve, when you volunteered for the Army program that would become the Howling Commandos, did you…had you ever had contact with supernatural creatures before?”

His jaw sets defiantly. “Not that I knew of, no.”

“Any that you didn’t know of?”

“How would I know, if I didn’t know of it? That’s an idiotic question.”

“Look, I know this is a lot,” Tash replies, in a conciliatory tone. “We have to ask, because—”

“You have to ask because whoever is giving the orders wants to assess where my loyalties lie. They want to know how much of a liability I am. So, why don’t you stop playing games and ask me the real question.”

Tash maintains his gaze with perfect equanimity. “Were you acquainted with James Buchanan Barnes, the vampire known as Winter, prior to your service in the Army?”

Steve crosses his arms and stares at the table for a long moment.

“In 1930, when I was twelve years old,” he begins, in a slow, meticulous cadence. “I was walking home over the bridge one night. I had an asthma attack, and I fell into the river. My lungs were already seizing, and I didn’t know how to swim anyway. It was dark and cold and I was alone. I knew I was going to die. All I could think of was my mother, and how it’d break her heart.

Then something grabbed me and pulled me all the way out of the river onto the bank. It felt too strong and fast to be real, but I was suffocating and in shock and I passed out. When I came to, there was a mouth on my mouth, breathing air into my lungs. It was a man. He was…beautiful. I’d never seen anyone like him in my life.

He smiled and said I’d be ok, but I couldn’t answer him. I was in a full-on attack, and my lungs hurt so bad, I thought I was still going to die. But he held me and talked me through the attack till they opened back up and I could breathe. Then I puked and sobbed till I almost passed out again.

I was too weak to walk, so he carried me home in his arms. My mother was out of her mind worrying. She cried and kept thanking him and tried to give him the little bit of money she had. He wouldn’t take it, and he left without saying his name.

A couple weeks later I saw him again, talking to some girls outside the nickelodeon, so I figured he must live in the neighborhood. He saw me too, and he smiled and winked, and put his finger on his lips, like I shouldn’t say anything, so I didn’t.

After that I’d see him around some evenings, with a different beautiful woman on his arm every time, and he’d always wink and smile. Sometimes he’d walk past me and slip me a candy bar or a new comic book, but we never talked after the night he saved me. We didn’t even introduce ourselves.

Then one day he wasn’t around anymore. I figured he went to fight in the war, like everyone else. I joined up and went to war and you know the rest of that story. I never saw him again.

After I woke up, I spent some time in Europe, getting reacquainted with the world. Getting used to the idea of being alive when everyone I knew was dead. When I was ready, I came home to Brooklyn, and…there he was. The man who saved my life eighty years ago. Like some kind of fucking miracle.

I was a sickly little kid back then, and it was a long time ago, so I’m not surprised he doesn’t remember me. But there hasn’t been a single day I haven’t thought of the man on the bridge, and how he saved me. He’s been my friend my whole life. Now I have a chance to be his.

So, to whoever’s listening, that’s where my loyalties lie. With my friend. I’m going to save him and nothing is going to stop me. If Shield wants to help, I’ll be grateful. If you want to stand in my way, I’ll go through you.”

Steve looks up quickly, as a door slides open in the wall on the far end of the room. Stepping through it, is a tall, dark-skinned man with a shaved head. He is dressed head to toe in black, and deep scars snake out around the black eyepatch over his left eye.

“Welcome back, Captain Rogers,” he says. He holds something aloft that looks like an absurdly oversized metallic Frisbee. “I believe this belongs to you.”

 

 

 

 

He is alone in the cold and dark. He doesn’t know how long he’s been this way, but it feels like a long time. Days, months, a life-age of the earth. There is nothing here by which to measure the passage of time. Nothing but cold and endless darkness.

Then there is pain. Searing, blinding, burning. White-hot blades of agony that rend his body and mind, tear him apart particle by particle, make him scream until his throat is torn and bloody, and he has no voice left cry out. No throat to make a voice. No lungs to take a breath.

The pain makes him long for the darkness and cold. The darkness and cold make him long for the pain. Torment is preferable to nothingness. Nothingness is preferable to torment. These are the only things he knows.

Then slowly, particle by particle, he feels himself being put back together. Arranged into systems. These systems arrange themselves into a larger system inside a body. The body has bones and organs and a protective layer of skin on the outside.

He feels a head, chest, stomach. These seem correct. Legs and arms. Yes. He is bipedal. Humanoid. Male genitals. This seems correct, as well. He feels like a male. Oh, eyes! He remembers eyes. He opens them to find that they are functioning.

They see a concrete-walled chamber, large, circular in shape with a high, concrete ceiling. The place appears to be in an advanced state of disrepair, which contrasts oddly with the array of high-tech devices arranged about him. What do those things do?

He tilts his head curiously, then becomes distracted by the realization that he can tilt his head, and proceeds to do so several more times. When he grows tired of this, he returns his attention to the screens with the blinking lights and words and numbers. He knows of words and numbers. They are symbols that carry meanings.

He is attempting to decipher the meanings of these words and numbers, when he hears a heavy, creaking sound like metal scraping on metal. He can hear. Of course. Humanoid creatures have ears. He can feel his long hair brushing against them when he tilts his head. So he has hair, too. Long hair. He hangs his head so it falls around his face and he can see it. It’s dark brown. Wavy. He decides he likes his hair.

The door creaks shut with a bang. He wishes it would open and shut again. The sound is so interesting. He lifts his head to look at the door, and sees a man. He’s tall and very thin. Grey hair, weathered, wrinkled skin. Old. An old man. Human skin shrivels and sags as they age.

He looks down at his own body. He must be young. His skin is smooth and taut over his muscles and bones. He is also naked. The old man is wearing boxy, grey garments with brass buttons on the coat. He hopes he won’t be made to wear such garments. They look rough and stiff, and he likes the air on his naked skin. He doesn’t like these heavy restraints, though. He can’t move his arms and legs to walk about or touch things.

“Good morning, soldat,” the old man says in Russian.

Soldat must be him. Soldier. That sounds familiar. Not exactly correct, but close. He is the soldier. And apparently, he understands Russian.

He answers in Russian. “Good morning.”

His voice is husky and low-toned. He likes it. He wants to say more things and hear them, but he knows not to speak until he is spoken to. He does not know how he knows this, though. Maybe the old man will tell him.

“It is good to have you back, my boy,” the old man says. His voice sounds cold and serpentine, and not at all like he means what he is saying. “You have given us…so very much trouble.”

Now he sounds like he means what he’s saying. He looks weary and angry. Like he hasn’t rested in years. The soldier watches him cautiously as he steps over to one of the devices with the blinking lights and screens. There is some connection between these devices and the pain, but he’s not sure what it is.

The old man touches a key and there is a sharp, clicking noise. The soldier gives a start, but it’s just the restraints disengaging. He lowers his arms and rolls his shoulders, still watching the old man intently.

“Well, come here,” the old man says, beckoning to him. “Let’s have a look at you.”

The soldier steps forward, then immediately looks down at the ground. He’s walking on springy, black rubber mats. He likes how they feel on his bare feet. He pushes his toes down into them as he steps over to stand before the old man.

The old man walks around him in a circle, looking him up and down, then he goes and taps on the keyboard attached to one of the devices. This makes more words and numbers appear on a screen. The soldier squints and blinks at them, but they won’t arrange themselves into a meaning yet. Maybe it’s a language he doesn’t know.

“How are you feeling,” the old man asks. “Any pain?”

“No.”

“How is the arm?”

The soldier looks down at his right arm, then his left. “Metal.”

“I am aware what it is made of, soldat,” the old man sighs. “How does it feel? Is it functioning properly?”

The soldier lifts his left hand to inspect it, closing it into a fist and then splaying out the fingers. “Full sensation. It appears to be functioning properly.”

“Good,” the old man mutters, as he taps the keys again. “That witch better bloody well hope it stays that way.”

Witch. He knows this word. Of course this metal arm is not native to his body. It is the work of a witch. There is some reason for this. It is heavily enchanted, obviously. He can feel the power crackling around inside it like electricity. But what is it enchanted to do? The old man will probably tell him. He opens and closes his metal hand some more, enjoying the way the light glints on the chrome-like surface.

“Alright, let’s get your collar on and then you can be dressed,” the old man says.

The soldier scowls and backs away a step. He doesn’t like the collar. He doesn’t know why, but he thinks he is afraid of it.

“Now, soldat, don’t pout,” the old man insists. “Be a good boy and let me put it on, or I will have Josef come and hold you still.”

The soldier continues to pout, but he submits to having the smooth, steel ring snapped closed around his neck. He doesn’t want to be touched by that huge, rough-skinned troll the old man calls Josef. The collar immediately makes him nauseous, and he wobbles unsteadily as he gets acclimated to the enchantment. It is old and strong, and very ugly. It’s full of blackness and chaos and death.

He sighs as he follows the old man out the door to be outfitted and given his weapons. He will be made to kill and destroy and tear things apart, and spill blood without even needing to swallow any. He does not like to do these things. They make him feel sick and sad and wish for the cold and darkness.

The collar reminds him that he _does_ like to do these things, and that he is very good at them. That…sounds correct. It must be. He is a vampire, he kills things and drinks blood, and he is tremendously strong. Thank you, collar.

In the next room, he is given black underwear and socks, and a black, thermal base-layer shirt with a long right sleeve and no left sleeve. He pulls these on, followed by black combat trousers made of all-weather fabric, and black infiltration boots with thick, nonskid soles. The silencing enchantment on these is light, but he can feel it as he laces them up.

Two human handlers pull on his leather chest armor and fasten it, then buckle on his belt, and his shoulder and boot holsters. He lifts his arms to the sides as the handlers fit knives into all the sheaths in his armor and holster straps. He likes knives the most of all his weapons. He is beginning to feel much more like himself. The collar agrees, and sends him a warm hum of approval. Thank you again, collar.

He wants to ask the collar who ‘himself’ is, but he doesn’t want to say it aloud with people standing here looking at him. The collar answers anyway. Winter Soldier. That sounds correct. More correct than just soldier. Yes. He likes this name. It sounds like him. He is cold and hard like winter, and a highly trained killer like a soldier. Also an outstanding natural killer, because vampire.

The handlers affix his black, muzzle-like mask and strap guns into all his holsters. His utility belt pouches are stuffed with extra clips of ammunition designed for use on various types of supernatural creatures, along with some spherical null-grenades. He checks these things are secure, then follows the old man down a long hall to a set of heavy, steel double doors.

“Your collar will relay orders as you need them, soldat,” the old man says. “We will be in communication with the witch. Watch out for the half-demon. You can’t kill her, so do not engage her. The witch will hide you from her true-sight, but her regular eyes will see you just fine, so stay out of her line of fire.”

At that moment, the witch in question glides up to stand beside the soldier. A red tendril reaches out from her aura and coils around his arm. His lip curls behind his mask. He dislikes this witch and her blood magic, with its soft, cloying whispers, twirling about in his mind.

The collar reminds him that she is his ally. That sounds correct, but he still doesn’t like her. She smells like deception and poison. Poison is the murder weapon of cowards. The collar gives him a painful jolt for that. Sorry, collar.

“Kill anyone else you wish to kill, the more the better,” the old man is saying. “Only you must absolutely destroy the wolf. This is imperative. Do not fail us.”

The doors swing open, and the witch and the soldier follow the human handlers across the courtyard to the waiting helicopter. A black, Hind-D attack chopper, with heavy machine gun turrets. These are redundant. The witch and the soldier are worth a thousand such paltry ballistic weapons.

She leans over and rests her head on his shoulder as the helicopter lurches into the air. He considers shrugging her off, but the collar warns him against it. The Scarlet Witch is his ally and direct superior. If she wishes to use him as furniture, that is her prerogative. Also, she could probably snap all his bones with her mind. Or force him to drink rat blood or something. Yuck. Good call, collar.

He wonders if her collar is like the one he has on. He asks his collar, but it ignores him. Either it’s busy, or it’s avoiding the question. He suspects the latter, but he doesn’t press the issue. Collars are touchy about being bothered with too many inquiries. The witch seems to have fallen asleep, so he sits perfectly still, staring straight ahead, and concentrates on clearing his mind.

Kill the wolf. This is his mission. This is all he knows or needs to know.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

 

The soldier is…bored. They’ve been sitting around for days doing nothing, killing nothing (aside from the people who had been living here), and he’s not allowed to leave the apartment. The witch says they are conducting reconnaissance, but he’s not doing anything of the kind. What he is doing is lying on the wood floor in what had been the recently deceased couple’s living room, observing the subtle shifts in light and shadow on the ceiling as the hours pass.

He wishes there had been more people living here. The collar had allowed him to drink the blood from the man and the woman, but it’s been days now, and the thirst is making him tense and agitated. At least their bodies aren’t here looking dead and smelling unpleasant. The witch had made them vanish after he drained them.

He wonders vaguely where they went, but he doesn’t care enough to ask. Asking would involve speaking to her, and he dislikes speaking to her very much. She’ll touch him with her thin hands and look at him with her huge, unnerving eyes. Her eyes are the worst. They’re always hazy and red-rimmed, like she just got done crying, or is about to start.

The metal arm whirrs and hums as he stretches it above his head. He smiles to himself. He likes the arm. The sounds it makes are pleasant and soothing. No parts grinding or clicking against each other, just machinery operating smoothly. It even produces its own heat when moved vigorously. He’s not allowed to do that anymore, though, because the witch had scolded him for flailing around making noise and distracting her.

He tips his head back and looks at her upside down. The shaft of moonlight coming in the window has shifted across her white face and languidly drooped body since he last looked at her. She has been sitting like that for hours. His fangs ache even at the sight of her sallow, pale skin. He wonders if he’ll be allowed to eat before he starves to death. But humans need food, so she must need to eat too, right? Collar, doesn’t the witch need to eat?

_The witch will eat when she requires nutrition._

Stupid, vague collar. It’s like it’s being unhelpful on purpose. Now he has no choice but to talk to the witch. Ugh. He sighs and rolls over onto his stomach.

“Hey, witch,” he says (in a stage whisper, since he’s been told to keep quiet). “Witch!”

She gives a start and turns her head toward him. She looks just as much like she’s going to cry as usual, but he refuses to be daunted.

“Don’t you need to eat sometime?” he asks. “We’ve been here for days and you haven’t had anything but water.”

“Have we?” she answers, in a dull, slurred voice. Her eyes shut and flutter open. “How many days?”

“Four.” 

“Four days,” she repeats dazedly. “It’s taking too long. I can’t…I can’t find the wolf. They’re going to—”

Her sentence breaks off in a strangled sound, and she clutches her throat. Her collar must not have liked what she was saying. The soldier pushes himself up and sits cross-legged, facing her.

“They wouldn’t have sent you if you couldn’t find him,” he reasons. “But shouldn’t we try actually looking? We’ve been sitting here doing nothing.”

“You have been doing nothing,” she says irritably. “I have been expending a massive amount of energy searching the city for him. They must have a witch of their own or a concealing enchantment.”

“But if they have that, regular eyes would still work, right?”

“Obviously.”

“So…”

“So what, soldat? Say what you mean.”

“So, we should go look for him with our regular eyes. And we can get something to eat.”

She bites her lip, wavering. “I don’t know. We would also risk being seen, ourselves.”

“If we don’t find him, we’re going to get in trouble for failing our mission anyway. We can sit here till we die of starvation, or we can go and look for him.”

“I…I don’t like being exposed,” she says, hugging herself, as if the room has suddenly gotten very cold. “I don’t want people looking at me.”

“We’re going to have to break cover eventually, in order to kill him. Besides, if anyone looks at you, you can…tear them apart with your mind, or whatever you do.”

She smiles softly at this. Then she looks away and her eyes go unfocused, and he can tell she is consulting with her collar. After a moment, she looks at him again and nods reluctantly. He hops to his feet and extends a hand to her without thinking, but he’s already done it, so he can’t retract the gesture now. She takes it and he pulls her up from her seat. A little too forcefully, as he had been unprepared for how very light her body is, and she comes tumbling into him.

“Sorry, witch,” he winces, steadying her on her feet. “You’re…small.”

“Your eyes,” she breathes. “They’re glowing on their own. You must be very hungry.”

He wrinkles his nose as she touches his cheek with her fingertip. Her body is radiating warmth, and the scent of her blood would be driving him mad by this point, were it not so tainted with poison. She’s saturated with verbena and juniper, and some other noxious herb he can’t identify. These aren’t precautions against him, though. Collar would never allow him to bite her.

“I am hungry, and you are too, so let’s go,” he says. “Uh…what do you like to eat?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “What is around here?”

“We passed an Italian place on fifth. They’re probably not open, though. It’s past midnight.”

“I don’t like Italian anyway. What else?”

“There’s a food-cart pod a block over,” he offers, as they climb out onto the fire escape. “They’re open late.”

She makes a face. “What is a food-cart pod?”

“It’s a parking lot with a bunch of trailers in it, where people cook and sell different kinds of food.”

“Ok,” she says, swinging her legs over the railing. “We can try that.”

Her red aura whirls about her and she drops off the fire escape, floating down to land gracefully on the sidewalk. He leaps down and lands beside her, with a heavy thud as his boots connect with the concrete.

“I’ll have to stay out of sight when we get there,” he says. “I’m pretty heavily armed.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You? You are not heavily armed. We are average couple, out for leisurely walk.”

He blinks at her confusedly, until she points to the window of a shop they are passing, and he turns to look. Reflected in the glass, he sees a nondescript, blonde-haired man and woman of their general heights and builds, wearing blue jeans and sweatshirts. He lifts his metal arm to wave, and the flesh arm of the man in the reflection does the same.

“Illusion magic,” she says, as they continue on. “Useful for covert operations, no?”

“Sure is,” he smiles, then his expression changes. “Oh, no. I left my mask in the apartment. Collar will punish me for having it off without permission.”

“I think…I can give you permission? I’m not sure.”

Collar, can the witch give me permission to leave my mask off?

_Asset authorized to conduct current operation without mask._

Oh. Thanks, collar.

“Collar says I can leave it off,” he tells the witch, who looks thoroughly confused.

“Collar says?” she asks. “What do you mean? Your collar speaks to you?”

“Not out loud. It sort of…talks in my head. Tells me things when I ask, gives me orders. Doesn’t yours?”

“I get orders and information from it, but I don’t hear it speak like a voice.”

“Hm. Maybe they’re different.”

“Maybe,” she smirks. “Or maybe you’re a nutcase.”

“That’s possible. I wouldn’t know,” he says musingly, then he grimaces. “Ugh, this place stinks. Why does human food smell so bad?”

“I think it smells delicious,” she smiles, breathing deeply. “It’s probably the garlic and spices you don’t like. Ooh, Lebanese. I’m having that.”

The soldier hangs back while she speaks to the sweaty, overly-friendly man in the trailer marked ‘Best of Beirut’. When they have come to some kind of agreement, she and the soldier sit down to wait at one of the wooden picnic tables that are arranged beneath strings of lights in the center of the square.

After what seems like far too long, the sweaty man calls her number, and she carries her food back to the table. The soldier watches dubiously as she bites into a rolled tube of bread filled with meat, that she calls shawarma. When she opens a container full of something called tabbouleh, he turns away in frank disgust.

“What’s your problem,” she says, with her mouth full of the offending substance. “I didn’t act all shitty about it when you drank those people’s blood.”

“Blood doesn’t reek of onions and mint,” he informs her. “And that looks like something a horse already ate.”

“Gross. Don’t be gross while I’m eating.”

“I’m being gross? I’m not the one eating that stuff,” he retorts.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re grumpy. Why don’t you go kill something and stop spoiling my dinner.”

“I’d…better not. Collar doesn’t want me to let you out of my sight.”

Her face falls, and her eyes look like they’re going to cry again. The soldier is annoyed by this, since she’d just been becoming less unpleasant to be around, but he also feels a pang of sympathy for whatever is making her so sad. The collar gives him a painful jolt for it. He stifles the sympathy feeling immediately and devotes his mind to forming a mission strategy, as she finishes her meal in silence.

“You said the wolf is being concealed by another witch or an enchantment, correct?” he asks, to which she nods. “That means they must be keeping him inside Shield HQ. It’s the only place that would be that strongly protected. We can’t hope to breach it on our own, and we don’t know where it is anyway. So, there’s only one thing we can do.”

“What is that?”

“We’re going to have to draw him out.”

Her pale face turns paler. “Soldat, that is…we cannot take on all of Shield on our own. Are you insane?”

“We don’t have to defeat all of Shield, as long as we can get to the wolf and kill him. Then it doesn’t matter what happens to us. We’ve completed the mission.”

“But…we’ll die,” she says tremulously. “I don’t want to die.”

“Oh.”

This is a difficulty he hadn’t foreseen. Collar, the witch wants to complete the mission with her life intact. How do we proceed?

_Asset survival irrelevant. Mission success primary._

Fucking thanks, collar. I’ll just tell her that out loud with my mouth. Ow! Sorry!

“I don’t know if we’ll survive, witch,” he says gravely. “The wolf has to die, and I have to see that it gets done. That’s all I know.”

“I know,” she says, in a quaking voice. Then she takes a deep breath to steady herself. “How do we draw him out?”

“We’re going to make it personal.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Ok, Sam,” Steve says, crossing his arms. “What’s so funny?”

“Hm? Nothing, man,” Sam replies, stifling a grin. “I was laughing at a joke I heard earlier.”

Steve does not appear convinced. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yep.”

“About what?”

“It was just something about werewolves and…Frisbees.”

“It’s not a Frisbee!” Steve says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “It’s a shield, and you know it’s a shield.”

“What’s going on, guys?” Clint asks, as he approaches them. “Wait, is Sam making fun of your Frisbee without me?”

Steve shakes his head. “Tash was right. You two are bullies.”

“Hey, we’re sorry for picking on you,” Sam says. “How about you let us take you out tonight and make it up to you. We can grab dinner, go to the park, throw the Frisbee around…”

“I don’t think you’re ready for that,” Steve says, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a very good Frisbee.”

“Hey, Steve,” Tash’s voice says behind them, where she’s materialized out of thin air. “We’ve got something.”

“Something like what,” Steve says, following her down the hall toward the intel center.

She pauses with her hand on the door handle. “I need you to stay calm, ok?” 

“Tash, we’ve been looking for my friend for weeks and come up with nothing. If I wasn’t able to stay calm, you’d know it by now.”

They enter the intel room, and several agents turn to look at him, then quickly away. One moves aside for Tash, who taps some keys on the keyboard, changing the large screen in the center of the room to a video feed of a live news broadcast.

“…in what police are calling an occult or ritual-style killing,” the anchor is saying. “Sensitive viewers may want to be warned, the images you are about to see are extremely disturbing. Sources at the NYPD say there are no suspects currently, but anyone with information…”

Steve doesn’t hear any of this. All he can do is stare in grief and horror at the screen. Five large, beautiful, grey wolves. One for each dead member of the Howling Commandos. Hung with nylon rope by their rear legs from the Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Arch in Grand Army Plaza. Their throats have been slit. The ground beneath the arch is dyed crimson with blood.

Near the center, there is an empty noose made of the same black, nylon rope. The final place, for the final member of the pack. He wipes away a tear, then turns without a word and walks out of the room.

“Steve, you can’t let them get to you,” Tash warns, as he strides rapidly down the hallway. “You’ll be walking into a trap.”

“I’ve walked into traps before,” Steve says, not slackening his pace.

“At least wait and let us come up with a plan of attack.”

“This was personal, Tash. It’s not about power. It’s about revenge for what I did after they killed my pack. And they’re going to drive it home by sending the only friend I have left to finish the job. Every Shield agent who gets involved is another chance he dies trying. I’m going alone.”

“What if you can’t get through to him, Steve? What if he doesn’t remember you?”

Steve opens the stairwell door and glances back at her. “He will.”

“God damn it,” Tash mutters, as she backtracks up the hall to find Sam and Clint. “Hawkeye, Falcon, I need a favor.”

“On it,” Sam says. “Air support and sniper cover?”

“Yeah. I don’t think Steve understands what he’s dealing with, here. Winter could have an army with him, for all we know. I’m going ahead to do some recon. I need you in the sky above Prospect Park ASAP, but stay high and out of sight until I call for you. I’ll be on comms. And guys, only shoot to kill if you absolutely have to, ok?”

“Tash, I don’t know how stupid you think we are,” Clint says. “But neither of us wants to be the guy who killed Steve’s friend. I’ve only seen him a little bit angry, and that was enough to last me a while.”

“Good,” she nods. “I’ll see you there.”

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

 

“Witch. Hey, witch.”

The witch sits up, blinking drowsily. “Hm? What?”

“Are you sad that I killed those wolves?”

“What are you talking about?”

“When I was hanging them up and cutting their throats so they’d drain, you seemed sad,” the soldier explains. “More sad than usual.”

She hesitates. “No, I…I wasn’t sad, soldat. We’re hunting a wolf, and killing wolves will send a strong message to him. It was a good strategy.”

He pushes himself up so he can look at her. “They didn’t feel any pain. I broke their necks first, so they wouldn’t suffer.”

“I don’t care about the wolves,” she snaps. “I am trying to sleep while I can, so no more talking, ok?”

“Ok.”

She falls back into the pillows and lies on her side, facing away from him. After a moment, she looks over her shoulder. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor, you know.”

“I can’t sleep in the bed with you in it,” he replies matter-of-factly. “You stink like verbena and juniper and it gives me a headache.”

“Fine. But don’t say I stink. That’s rude.”

“Sorry. It smells bad to me.”

“Well, it stops your kind from biting me, so deal with it.”

“Collar stops me from biting you. You don’t need to reek like poison all day and night.”

“You’re not the only vampire in the world, soldat,” she says irritably. “It’s a precaution. Now seriously, no more talking. We have only a few hours till sunset and I need to rest.”

“Fine,” he mutters, as he stretches himself out on the wood floor again.

He doesn’t want to talk to her, anyway. She’s a liar. And she’s bad at it, too, which is worse. It’s also weird for a witch who does all kinds of deception and illusion magic to be a bad liar, come to think of it. She’d clearly been upset about the wolves. He saw it in her face. And she was still upset about it just now. He can’t understand why, though.

She does blood magic, so it can’t have been the blood. She’d watched him kill and drain a human after she’d had her dinner last night with no problem, and wolves are just animals. Collar, why is the witch sad that I killed the wolves?

_Some humans consider animals to be innocent, and find their suffering undesirable._

Humans kill and eat animals all the time, collar. The witch even ate food with animal in it last night. She wasn’t sad about the cow or whatever someone killed to put into her shawarma.

_Chicken._

Chicken, thank you. She wasn’t sad about the chicken she ate. So why is it different for the wolves?

_Unknown._

Humans are confusing, collar. Except the old man. He tells me what to do, and I do it. He doesn’t act one way about a thing and then the opposite way about almost the same thing later.

_Recommend sleep cycle prior to mission._

Oh, right. Set sleep, three hours. 

_Sleep set. Wake at 19:27 hours._

Goodnight, collar.

 

 

 

 

Large, white paws fall on the carpet of woodland detritus, soft and silent as snow. Beneath the dense canopy of trees, keeping low and to the shadows, the wolf stalks. A tundra wolf, impossibly massive in size, with keen, bright-gold eyes. Its lush, white fur bears a hint of golden-brown at the flanks and on the ears and muzzle, and is so thick about the chest and neck, it almost appears to be a mane. To any observer so unfortunate as to cross its path, it would be an object of wonder as well as terror.

No observer would be so unfortunate, however, unless the wolf intended to be seen. To unwelcome eyes, it is visible only as a brief flicker of moonlight from the corner of the eye, that vanishes in the gloom of night when looked upon.

It slinks through the deep darkness of the ravine, bearing north and slightly west, till it comes to the break in the trees. When it steps out of the cover of the woods, it is a tall, blonde-haired, broad-shouldered man, with bright-blue eyes. The man lifts his head warily, scenting the air, after the manner of his kind.

“I know you’re here,” he says softly. “I can smell you all over the place.”

There is no answer.

He waits for a moment, then continues in the direction he’d been going, keeping close to the treeline and avoiding the full exposure of the paved path. After a few meters, he scents the air again and quickens his pace. A little ahead, at the point where two paths merge, there is another clump of trees. He stops short, spying a flicker of movement in the undergrowth beneath them.

“Witch, he’s here,” the soldier whispers. “The wolf is here. I feel him.”

“Where?” she whispers back.

“Coming this way. There. Right at the treeline. How many are with him?”

She shakes her head. “None. He’s alone. Why would he come alone?”

“There must be others staying out of range,” he says, hopping to his feet. “Watch my six and keep an eye out for the half-demon.”

“What is your plan?”

“I’m going to engage him head-on. Stay out of sight unless I get into trouble.”

She stays him with a hand on his arm. “Soldat…can you really handle him on your own?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t fought him before. That’s why you’re here to back me up.”

“Ok,” she says, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “Ok, I’m ready.”

The soldier draws his sidearm and steps out into the open. The moonlight glints bright and silver from the reflective surface of his metallic left arm.

“We don’t have to fight,” the wolf says, raising his hands, palm-outward. “Put down the gun and we can talk.”

The soldier doesn’t answer. His green eyes gaze fixedly back at the wolf from above his black mask. He is a big, blonde man in a blue t-shirt and jeans. Not very intelligent, from the look of him. He doesn’t even appear to have brought any weapons.

“Buck, come on,” the wolf says, foolishly advancing toward him. “Don’t do this. I’m your friend.”

“You’re not my friend, wolf,” the soldier replies flatly. “You’re my mission.”

“Yes, I am your friend, and I’m not gonna fight you.”

“That’ll make things a lot easier.”

The soldier raises his sidearm and fires three shots in rapid succession. To his irritation, the bullets strike a large, metal disc that has somehow materialized in the wolf’s hand, and fall harmless to the ground. Before he can blink, the metal disc is careening toward him, apparently with the intention of knocking the gun from his hand. His titanium and steel arm flashes out and grabs it from the air.

“What is this?” he demands, holding it up to look at it. “Did you just throw a fucking Frisbee at me?”

“It’s a shield,” the wolf retorts, then he blinks. “Holy shit, what happened to your arm? It’s…metal.”

“I know what it’s made of, wolf,” the soldier says, tossing the disc away and leveling the gun at him again.

“My name is Steve and you know it’s Steve, Bucky, cut the shit. I’m trying to save you.”

“Pleased to meet you, Steve Bucky. I’m trying to kill you.”

As he says this, the soldier quickly fires two more rounds. The wolf rolls out of the way in time to avoid one, but the other strikes him in the left shoulder. Silver-coated bullets, capable of piercing even wolf hide. The soldier knows, though he does not recall why, that they’re also a bitch to get out, and that they leave scars. The wolf looks up at him, eyes alight with amber-gold fire.

“God damn it, Buck!” he snarls, clutching his bleeding shoulder. “Stop fucking shooting me! It really hurts!”

“You’re still alive, wolf,” the soldier replies. “I don’t stop till you’re dead. That’s how this works.”

“I want you to stop before _you’re_ dead! I don’t want to hurt you!”

“That’s very kind, but I still have to kill you.”

Just as the soldier is squeezing the trigger again, something odd happens. There is a tug on his metal arm, which causes his shot to go wild. He is looking at it, trying to assess what has pulled on it, when it begins to glow red at all the seams between the articulated plates.

He watches, dumbstruck, as his metal hand wrenches the gun from his flesh hand and sends it sailing away through the air. He turns and blinks at the witch, who has appeared beside him. Her eyes are rimmed with red and there are tears on her cheeks.

“Witch,” he says confusedly. “What’s…happening?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, in a tremulous whisper. “Give me your hand, soldat.”

The soldier feels his body moving toward her, but he has no control of it. It’s a rather odd sensation, like being pulled on strings. He sees his metal hand reach out and take the witch by the throat. Feels it clamp down and squeeze, till there is a sharp snap.

A sound like a howling vortex screams out, then collapses abruptly into silence, as the broken fragments of a steel ring fall with soft plunks onto the grass. He stares stupidly down at them for a second, then a black bile of rage wells up in his throat and nearly chokes him.

“Traitor,” he growls, fixing his fiery-green eyes on her sallow, pathetic face. “Collar, the witch has betrayed us!”

_Terminate asset Scarlet Witch._

The soldier’s black-bladed knife is already in his hand. He lunges for her, but a shockwave of her red aura knocks him back and holds him fast.

“I can’t hold him for long!” she calls out to the wolf.

“What did you do!” the wolf demands. “What are you doing to him!”

“Please,” she half sobs. “They will know I broke free of my collar. They will to come for us. This is our only chance. Please, please help me!”

“Let me go, witch,” the soldier says through his teeth, straining against the aura. “I’ll deal with you quickly. The old man won’t be so merciful.”

The wolf looks back and forth between the soldier and the witch, then lifts his head to shout. “Tash! This would be a really good time to stop pretending you’re not here!”

At that moment, the witch’s strength flags. The aura surrounding the soldier dissipates as she crumples to the ground. He darts forward like a black blur and gets hold of her by the front of her jacket, tearing off his mask with his other hand. He’d meant to rip out her throat, but he flinches, overwhelmed the sudden stench of that poison she’s been taking.

The flinch costs him. He is staggered by a sudden, heavy blow to the back of his head. He wheels unsteadily around to face his unseen assailant, but another blow knocks him sideways and sends him spinning into black unconsciousness.

 

 

 

 

“How’s the shoulder?” Tash asks, as Steve enters the security center.

“It’s fine. Doesn’t even hurt anymore,” Steve says. “How’s it going with the witch?”

“She’s calmed down a lot, now that I’m not in the room with her,” Tash smirks. She touches a key to activate the closed-circuit feed from interview room A. “Director Fury’s talking to her now.”

“It took me many years to gain the old man’s trust,” the witch is saying, wringing her thin, white hands. “Finally, he asked me assist him with a secret project. He wanted me to develop a weapon that could only be wielded only by a vampire of tremendous power.

I worked on it for three years, and at last, I was successful. But I never understood what it was for, until he brought the soldier back. Then I saw my chance to escape. After he was conditioned, I attached the weapon. Along with the power I put into it, I wove a secret enchantment, that would allow me to control it.

It had to be subtle, in order to remain undetected, so it could only be strong enough to work once, and for just long enough to make it destroy the collar. It was my one chance to get away.”

“Why didn’t you just do it as soon as you were out in the open?”

“I knew the soldier would kill me the moment he learned what I’d done. I had to wait until we confronted Shield, so I could ask for help. I owe you and your agents my life.”

“Regarding this collar, Ms. Maximoff,” Director Fury says coolly. “This is the primary method of control Hydra is now using on supernaturals?”

“The ones who need to be controlled, yes. The majority are creatures of subhuman intelligence that know no better. They don’t need collars.”

“I see. And the one the soldier is wearing, is it like the one you had?”

“No. I had cultivated a position as a trusted slave. Mine was far less controlling than his.”

“Is the collar the source of his memory loss?”

She shakes her head. “That was done to him during his conditioning. But the collar helps to slow his memory returning, as his brain heals itself.”

“Heals itself?”

“His memory loss is a symptom of large areas of his brain being essentially torn to pieces inside his skull. The object was to return him to a submissive, childlike state, where he would be much easier to control and much more prone to imprint on the old man and follow his orders without question.”

“But his brain…it will heal?”

“It is already healing. I know it, because he becomes more intelligent and cruel as it does. A human brain would not even survive such destruction, but his vampiric nature keeps him alive, and its regeneration works incredibly swiftly.”

“If that’s the case, how do they keep him under control?”

“They put him back in the machine and they take his mind apart again.” She pauses and tears roll down her pale face. “I have seen them do it so many times. I…I thought that if he could not be saved, then at least here he may only be destroyed and have an end to his torment. He has suffered so much.”

“Don’t count on it,” Director Fury says drily. “There’s an excessively loyal wolf out there who’d have a few things to say if we harmed a hair on his bloodsucker buddy’s head. Which raises another question. Why do you care so much what happens to this vampire?”

“He saved my life. A long time ago. He doesn’t remember it, though.”

“Seems like there’s a lot of that going around. How does the collar prevent his memory returning as his brain heals?”

“It will confuse and distract him when memories arise. Punish him with severe pain if he attempts to concentrate on information about his former self. If he persists long enough, it will kill him. It is a failsafe that was added when he was returned.”

“So we just have to get it off, then.”

“No, no, it is not like mine was. Removing it will destroy him.”

“But if leaving it on is going to kill him, anyway, what do you propose we do?”

“The necromancer who enchanted it would have to remove the spell. Or a necromancer of greater power.”

“We don’t keep a lot of those on staff, unfortunately. Any chance you know where this necromancer is?”

“I do, but…he is in the belly of the Hydra beast. It will be nearly impossible to get to him.”

“Nearly impossible is basically what we do,” Director Fury replies. “And if you’re willing to cooperate, I’m sure we can come to an arrangement that doesn’t involve us sending you back to Hydra with a gift tag on your head.”

“I will do anything I can,” the witch says gravely. “But the soldier, he does not have much time. It will be a matter of weeks before his memory begins to return. Maybe less.”

“Then I guess you better get to work, Agent Maximoff.”

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

 

 

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

The soldier pauses, listening. The footsteps outside pass by the door without slowing, and disappear down the hall. He sighs and resumes what he’d been doing, which was thumping his head against the back of this stupid metal chair. Beating out an even, steady rhythm to soothe his racing mind.

His armor and weapons and clothing have been taken, which he’s used to, but they left him his underwear, which he is wearing beneath some kind of hideous, orange, pajama-style pants made of non-stretchy fabric. Between these and the white cotton a-shirt that constitutes the remainder of his clothing, he looks very much like a prisoner. He feels like a prisoner, too.

He is fastened to the chair by heavy restraints on his ankles and right wrist, and his metal arm is being held securely by some kind of massive industrial clamp thing, which is bolted right into the concrete floor. He can’t move about or stand, or even reach up to scratch his cheek when it gets tickled by his long hair.

Between boredom and bloodthirst and forced immobility, he’s so agitated he’s beginning to feel as if his bones are all trying to escape his body. And his head is aching like crazy. This is a thousand times worse than sitting around in that apartment. At least there he was free to move about and annoy the witch with questions.

He should be using this time to devise a strategy, but collar hasn’t spoken to him since he woke up in this room, so he’s stuck sitting here with nothing to do but thump his head on the chair and wait for them to come execute him, or whatever they’re going to do. He wishes they would hurry the fuck up and kill him already.

_Unlikely._

Collar, you’re back! What’s unlikely?

_Execution of high-value asset Winter Soldier by hostile agency unlikely. More probable scenarios: interrogation, attempted subversion, use as bargaining collateral._

Well, if they interrogate me, they’ll be disappointed. I don’t know anything. Subversion? I’d like to see them try. I’d like to see them try to use me as bargaining collateral, too. That would be entertaining. What if they just leave me locked up in here and let me starve to death? They might. I’m pretty dangerous.

_Unlikely. Possibility of permanent death due to blood starvation unconfirmed. Theoretical time requirement prohibitive._

How much time?

_Approximately one-hundred and nine-thousand, five-hundred days._

How many years is that?

_Approximately three-hundred years._

Fuck. I don’t want to sit here for three-hundred years. I’m already all agitated and achy and it’s only been a couple of days. What are my orders?

_Communications with home base offline. Mission parameters remain in effect until further notice._

Understood. I have to get out of this thing before I can kill the wolf and the witch, though, and I’m already weak and in pain. Do you think this is part of their interrogation strategy? To weaken me into talking?

_Subversion more probable._

Explain.

_Standard hostage scenario. Asset subjected to physical and psychological discomfort for extended period of time. Hostile agent assumes protective role. Reduces asset discomfort, appears to shield asset from abuse by other hostiles. Objective: gain asset’s trust and create psychological bond. Use bond to subvert asset loyalty._

Oh. That’s pretty manipulative. But I guess that’s what I’d do, if the situation were reversed. Do you think they’re going to try that on me?

_Probable._

But…if I pretended it was working and I was getting subverted, they might ease up on my restrictions. Then I might get a chance to kill the wolf and the witch.

_Possible._

I guess I can try that. But someone has to come try and subvert me, first. I bet it’ll be that wolf. He kept saying he was my friend and didn’t want to hurt me. Hey, collar, is that why the wolf said he was my friend?

No answer from the collar. The soldier repeats the inquiry several times and receives more silence, so he returns to his occupation of thumping his head on the metal back of the chair, and wishing his bones would stop aching so much.

After a few minutes, he hears footsteps in the hallway again. Not wanting to get his hopes up, he keeps thumping his head, until he hears them stop at the door. There is a beeping sound, then the lock disengages and the door swings open. It’s not the wolf. It’s a rather handsome, dark-skinned young man in some sort of black combat fatigues.

He steps partway in and holds the door open with one hand. “Hey, you want to give it a fucking rest?”

“Give what a rest?” the soldier asks.

“The thumping. I can hear it all the way over in the security office and it’s driving me fucking nuts. So however you’re doing it, cut it the fuck out.”

“Sorry,” the soldier says. “I didn’t know anyone could hear me.”

The young man stares at him. “Did…you just say sorry?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The soldier tilts his head to one side. “Because that’s what you say when you’ve been bothering someone?”

“Uh-huh,” the young man says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Well, don’t fucking do it anymore.”

“Ok.”

He eyes the soldier cagily for another beat, then backs out the door, letting it fall shut with a heavy _chunk_. The soldier listens to his boots clomping back up hall till the noise disappears.

Well, great. Now he’s not even allowed to thump his head. This place fucking sucks.

Around ten minutes pass, and the soldier hears boots clomping down the hall again. The stride sounds like the young man from before. Keypad beeps, lock disengages, door opens. Yep, it’s him. He steps fully into the room this time, and stands there with his arms crossed on his chest, like he’s angry.

“The fuck are you doing, man?” he demands.

The soldier assesses his current activities and comes up with nothing. “Nothing.”

“Why?”

The soldier blinks at him for a beat. Well, ask a stupid question…

“Because my arms and legs are strapped to this chair.”

“I meant why the fuck did you stop making a racket in here?”

The soldier frowns. Is there something wrong with this man’s memory? Or maybe this is some kind of interrogation tactic? Asking absurdly obvious questions to throw him off?

“You told me to stop,” he explains. “Like, ten minutes ago. Remember?”

“And you expect me to believe you quit doing that shit because I asked you to?”

“I…did.”

The young man’s scowl deepens. “Yeah, I bet you did. Just to drive me crazy wondering when you were gonna kick it up again, right?”

Ok, this man is clearly unhinged. Shield should vet their agents for psychological stability more carefully.

“I don’t understand why you’re upset,” the soldier says wearily. “You said the noise was bothering you. I can start making it again if you want.”

“You’d better the fuck not,” the young man retorts. “Don’t fuck around with me, Count Dorkula, I can make shit real unpleasant for you in here.”

“Count Dorkula,” the soldier chuckles. “That’s funny.”

The young man’s expression shifts from suspicious scowl to something the soldier can’t exactly quantify.

“Holy shit,” he says. “I didn’t know it was this bad. Sorry, man.”

With this bizarre speech, he turns and exits the room again, leaving the soldier alone to contemplate what a strange person he must be.

In the security office, he finds Clint just arriving, with two mugs of coffee. Sam thanks him with a kiss on the cheek, then falls into his chair shaking his head.

“What’s up?” Clint asks, taking his own seat. “Everything ok?”

“I didn’t realize how bad they fucked him up,” Sam sighs.

Clint frowns. “What happened?”

“He was making some kind of thumping noise. I went to tell him to knock it off, and he actually stopped.”

“I don’t know. That doesn’t sound so—”

“He apologized for bothering me, babe. _Apologized_. And that’s not even the worst part. He…he laughed. At one of my jokes.”

“Shit,” Clint says, raising his eyebrows. “Any chance he was being sarcastic?”

Sam hangs his head dolefully. “No. It was sincere. It’s like he’s not even in there anymore.”

“We’ll get him back. Steve is literally the most determined man I’ve ever met. He’s not going to lose the man he loves after he just found him again.”

“Determination doesn’t necessarily equal success, though.”

“I’ve got a feeling it does when Steve is involved. Speaking of which, has he been down to see his boyfriend yet?”

“Nah. Not since they brought him in. He says he thinks it’s a bad idea. And watch your mouth with that boyfriend shit. We don’t even know they’re like that with each other.”

“Ok. Sure, babe,” Clint laughs. “Cause I don’t know what two men in love look like.”

“Well, keep it to yourself anyway. Steve hasn’t said anything, so it’s none of our business.”

“What am I, six? Of course I’ll keep it to myself.”

“Hey, has anyone said anything to you about feeding him? He’s looking pretty pale and weak.”

“No, no one told me anything. I assumed you knew.”

“Nope. I’m gonna call up about it.”

Clint grins. “Aw, I love how much you care about your murderous vampire friend.”

“I care about humane treatment of prisoners,” Sam rejoins, picking up the phone. “We’re not the bad guys. We don’t starve people. Even murderous vampire people.”

 

 

 

The soldier has been in a sleep cycle for several hours, when the collar wakes him with a jolt, alerting him that the door to his cell is being opened. He opens his eyes and blinks around at the seeming crowd of people who are entering one after another.

One of them is the young man from earlier, along with a blonde-haired man in similar black combat fatigues, and a pleasant-faced man with thinning hair, dressed in a grey business suit. The rest are white-coated medical personnel carrying various pieces of equipment.

The pleasant-faced man introduces himself as Agent Coulson, the young man from earlier as Falcon, and the blonde man as Hawkeye. The soldier nods to them, watching curiously as the medical personnel set up an I.V. stand on his right, hang a full blood bag on it, and begin to unwrap tubes and things. It occurs to him then that they must intend to attach this I.V. to his body.

“Ma’am,” he says, to the doctor who appears to be in charge. “You’re not going to be able to do that.”

“Excuse me?” she frowns.

“You’re going to try to give me blood intravenously, right? You won’t be able to. Your needles won’t pierce my skin.”

“We have vampires on staff,” she says. “These needles are made specifically for your kind.”

“You don’t have any on staff like me,” the soldier replies patiently. “You’ll be wasting your time.”

The doctor turns to the pleasant-faced balding man named Agent Coulson. “What do you want us to do, sir?”

Agent Coulson looks at the doctor, then back at the soldier. “You mind if we try one? For science?”

“Go ahead,” the soldier shrugs.

He smiles to himself as another medical person—a phlebotomist, the collar informs him—sanitizes his skin with a pungent-smelling alcohol wipe, finds a vein, and attempts the needle. It depresses the surface of his silky-white skin, but doesn’t penetrate it. She looks at him, then the doctor, then tries again. No luck. She shakes her head and goes in for a third try. This time, she presses on the needle with increasing determination, till it snaps off and plinks onto the concrete floor across the room.

“Well, what do you know,” Agent Coulson laughs. “I guess we can’t feed you this way. That’s a bummer.”

“I tried to tell you,” the soldier says.

“That’s on them for not listening,” Falcon, the young man from earlier, interjects. “What do we do now, Coulson? We’ve gotta feed him somehow.”

“We could send him agents who don’t properly file their expense reports,” Agent Coulson says musingly. “What? It was a joke. I guess he could drink right from the bag. If someone wants to volunteer to hold it.”

“Not it,” the Falcon and Hawkeye say in unison.

“No one has to do that,” the soldier says. “I’m not drinking cold blood from a plastic bag for any reason.”

“Come on, man,” Falcon urges. “We can’t let you starve.”

“Sir, if this isn’t going to require intubation, I’d like to remove my staff from the vicinity of the vampire,” the doctor says to Agent Coulson. “We’ll, uh…leave the blood with you guys. Just in case.”

“Go ahead, Dr. Cho,” Agent Coulson replies. “Thank you for coming down.”

The medical people pack up their equipment and depart, leaving a small, blue cooler with several full I.V. bags visible inside. The soldier’s stomach turns at the sight of them and he looks away.

“Hey, we’re not trying to pull one over on you or anything,” Falcon says encouragingly. “This is good blood. Be a good bloodsucker and take it.”

The soldier keeps his eyes on the floor. “No.”

“I bet you will.”

“I bet I won’t.”

Falcon reaches for an I.V. bag. “I bet I can make you.”

“I bet you can get bit trying, jackass,” Hawkeye says, catching his arm. “You can’t force him to drink it. We’ll have to think of something else.”

Falcon raises an eyebrow. “I might have a thought already. Coulson, could you accompany us to the security office for a moment?”

“Right behind you,” Agent Coulson says, kneeling to close the cooler as they open the door.

“It was kind of you guys to try to feed me,” the soldier puts in. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

Falcon and Hawkeye turn around and stare at him.

He looks back and forth between them. “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Falcon says.

“You’re being polite. Which is totally normal,” Hawkeye adds.

“Yep. Normal. See you later.”

The soldier looks at Agent Coulson as the other two hurry out the door. “Are they always like that?”

“Pretty much,” Coulson smiles. “I’m sure they’ll be back soon. Fair warning.”

When they have all gone, the soldier eyes the cooler darkly. Gross. It occurs to him that he has no idea how he knows what cold I.V.-bag blood tastes like, but he certainly does. It tastes like someone tried to chemically synthesize yak piss. He’d literally rather starve. Now he has to sit in this room knowing some of that disgusting abomination is lurking there in plastic pouches. Probably on top of ice. He shudders and closes his eyes.

He’s not sure when he slipped off to sleep, but gradually, he becomes aware that he’s dreaming. He’s himself, and he’s walking across an old, steel bridge at night. He looks down at his body. He’s wearing rather outdated grey trousers and a white button-down shirt.

He realizes with a vague sense of disorientation, that his left arm is flesh and blood, rather than metal, and that he’s flipping a cigarette lighter open and closed in his pocket. Running his tongue over his fangs. Hunting. But when? Where? He doesn’t know this place, and he’s sure they’ve never given him clothes like that.

He hears an odd, rasping sound from a way behind him and turns to look. As he does, the bridge warps and twists into a massive tangle of dislocated shapes and drab, muddy colors. Then suddenly, he is jerked awake, with another proximity warning from the collar.

He opens his eyes groggily, and finds he is unable to focus on the person entering the cell. It must have been hours or days since Hawkeye and Falcon and Agent Coulson went away. The bloodthirst is so bad he can hardly move his head without aching shivers of pain shuddering through his entire body.

He squints at the person-shaped blob. “I’m not…drinking I.V. blood. Fuck off.”

“I’m not here to make you,” the blob replies.

The hairs on the back of the soldier’s neck stand on end. It’s the wolf’s voice. He’s here in the room, the fool! Well. Except the soldier can’t really do anything to him, which he must know, so maybe not excessively foolish. But still.

“What do you want, wolf,” the soldier says weakly. “I’m still gonna…kill you.”

“Yeah, you keep saying,” the wolf-blob says. “How are you going to do that if you starve yourself to death?”

“I’m not starving me, they are,” the soldier slurs. “Not drinking I.V. yak piss. Gonna die. Come back and…haunt you. My ghost will stab you, you dumb wolf.”

“Your ghost, huh?” the wolf-blob laughs. “You really are losing it. And what’s this I hear about you laughing at Sam’s joke? He was pretty shaken up.”

“Don’t know who’s Sam,” the soldier mumbles. “I’ll shake _him_ up. I’ll…I’m stuck. I can’t move my—oh shit, I’m in the chair. I forgot. Stupid wolf. This is all your fault. And that dumb witch. I hate her and her stupid cry face.”

He feels the wolf’s big, calloused hand on his shoulder. The heat of it on his ice-cold skin sends a tremor through his entire body. His eyes have fallen shut. He forces them open heavily, looking up into the wolf’s stupid, handsome face.

“Why—why are you touching me?”

“I’m going to help you, Buck. I know you won’t drink the I.V. blood and I’m not going to let you starve. You’re not going to like it, though.”

“You don’t even know what I like,” the soldier grumbles, trying to shrug the hand off. “I don’t want your help.”

“Too fucking bad,” the wolf says flatly. “I’m giving you some of my blood.”

The soldier blinks up at him, head swaying drunkenly. “No you’re not, you dumb…wolf-ass. My fangs won’t even go through your dumb wolf-ass hide.”

The wolf’s eyes begin to glow amber-gold, bright even in the fluorescent light of the room. He lifts his wrist to his mouth and bares his own fangs. The soldier’s heart lurches and his body tenses like a drawn bow.

“No,” he means to growl, but it comes out like a plea. “No. I won’t drink wolf blood. You can’t—”

The wolf’s bleeding wrist is clapped firmly over his mouth. The bitter, aromatic liquid scintillates on his tongue. It tastes like jet fuel that’s on fire and full of razorblades. He gags and struggles, but the wolf has him by the back of the neck with his other hand, and he’s too weak to fight him.

The blood pours down his throat, searing and scorching and—and…actually, once the nuclear hellfire of death burning sensation wears off, it’s not that bad. He can already feel it spreading through his veins, warming and soothing his racked, aching muscles. The wolf pulls away after he’s only swallowed a couple mouthfuls and lets go of his neck.

The soldier’s head lolls backward and thumps against the back of the metal chair. He laughs giddily. Falcon will be so mad. He hates that sound so much. Maybe he’ll come in here all indignant and call him Count Dorkula again. That’ll be funny. Fuck. What the fuck is that smell? It’s so fucking amazing, holy shit. Collar, what is that?

The collar ignores him. Typical. That thing has been in a _mood_ lately.

“Wolf,” he says. “Hey, wolf. What’s that smell?”

“That’s me,” the wolf says. “I smell different to you when you’ve got wolf blood in you.”

The soldier lifts his head to look at him again. Jesus fucking Christ this wolf is hot. Was he always this hot? Yeah, he was. The soldier just didn’t want to admit it before, cause target. It’s too bad he’s stuck in this chair prison thing. They could rip each other’s clothes to shreds and fuck on the floor like animals. Wait, what? No. Not fuck. He’s supposed to kill this guy.

“I’m sorry I have to kill you, wolf,” he says solemnly. “You seem nice. And you smell good. And you’re really fucking hot.”

“I’m sorry you’re locked up like this,” the wolf says, and he sounds like he means it. “I hate it. I hate that they’re doing this to you. But you’re strong and dangerous, and if we let you free, you’d kill a lot of people.”

“Thank you, wolf,” the soldier says, with a lopsided smile. “I _am_ strong and dangerous, and I _would_ kill a lot of people. You’re so…I told you, you’re so nice.”

“Try to get some sleep, ok?” the wolf says, patting his shoulder again. “Sam and Clint will come back and check on you in a little while.”

“Ok, bye wolf,” the soldier murmurs drowsily, already half-dozing. “Thanks for…wolf…”

The wolf gazes at the sleeping soldier for another moment, then turns reluctantly and leaves the room, holding the door to make sure it shuts softly behind him.

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

 

 

He is standing on the old, steel bridge again, strangely dressed and flipping that lighter open and closed. Sliding his tongue along the edge of his teeth, feeling the sharp points of his fangs. That strange rasping sound begins, a little way behind him. He turns to look, and the bridge warps into a tangle of muddy nonsense, like it had before.

He fights it this time. Focuses his mind. Pushes against it with his perception, till it smooths out and rearranges itself into the bridge. There’s someone standing there. He sees the back of a blonde head. It’s a kid. A skinny little kid in baggy trousers and a shirt that’s way too big for him. It’s him making that rasping sound. Is there something wrong with him?

All the sudden, the kid doubles over and topples off the bridge. The soldier snaps awake, assailed by searing lightning-bolts of pain that split through his head and white out his vision. He arches his back in the chair, groaning through his teeth, straining against the restraints as his body racks with agony. He wishes he could die. Why won’t they let him die?

Then just as suddenly, the pain dissipates, leaving him sweat-drenched and panting, looking dazedly about the room. Collar, what the fuck was that? What did I do?

No answer from the collar. It punishes him without explaining all the time, but he can usually guess the reason, after the fact. This time he has no idea. He was just having some stupid dream, why would the collar even care about that?

The door bangs open and Falcon hurries in. “Hey, man, you ok? What happened?”

“It’s just—pain,” the soldier puffs, still trying to catch the breath he does not need to take, but for which his body instinctively gasps when he’s under physical stress. “I was dreaming…then pain.”

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s ok, you don’t have to. You need anything?”

“I need to get out of here. Kill the wolf and witch. Finish my mission.”

“Anything besides that?”

The soldier shakes his head then drops it forward, letting his long hair fall over his face. After a moment, a little rose-hued drop splashes onto the front of his white a-shirt, then another.

“Aw, come on, man,” Falcon says, stepping cautiously closer. “Don’t do that. You’re gonna be ok.”

“Why do I deserve this, Falcon?” the soldier pleads. “Everyone hurts me and locks me up and tells me what to do all the time. I’m always in trouble and being punished and I never understand what I did wrong.”

“We’re not keeping you in here as a punishment, Winter,” Falcon says sympathetically. “You’ve gotta stay here cause you’ll kill people if we let you out. We know you can’t help it, but we can’t let innocent people die, either.”

“What if I promised I wouldn’t?” the soldier sniffles. “Would you let me walk around and look at things a little bit? These walls are so boring and I can’t move my arms and legs and the restraints hurt. I think…I think I’m going crazy.”

“I’m really sorry. It’s not up to me.”

“Is it up to the wolf?”

“Not exactly, but listen. I do think it’s pretty cruel leaving you strapped down all day and night like this. I’ll talk to someone. See if there’s some way we can let you get some exercise, ok?”

“Ok,” the soldier nods, blinking back more tears. “Thank you, Falcon. You’re a kind person.”

“Well, I’m part angel,” Falcon grins. “I can’t help it.”

The soldier looks up at him. “You’re part angel? Like from the paintings in churches?”

“Eh, sort of. You know of the Nephilim?”

“No.”

“Well, way back when, like in the old-ass days before the Hebrew patriarchs, there were some angels who saw human women down on earth looking pretty damn fine, and they decided to go see what was up. They got human wives and had babies, and that hybrid race is my ancestors. We’re called Elioud. There’s not a lot of us left anymore, though.”

“What about your parents?”

“My mom was human. My dad went off to some holy war while she was pregnant and never came back, so I never knew him. I’ve never even met anyone else like me, actually.”

“I’m sorry, Falcon. That sounds really lonely.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I like being unique, you know?” Falcon shrugs. “Besides, I’ve got my husband and my friends. I kinda made my own family.”

“Your husband?”

“Hawkeye. The hot blonde who’s not Steve.”

“Oh. I like Hawkeye. He’s nice to me, too. You all are.” The soldier looks away thoughtfully, then back up at him. “Why are you all so nice? I keep telling you I’ll kill you, but you come and talk to me and try to feed me and don’t hit me or anything. I don’t understand.”

“Because it’s not your fault you want to kill us. It’s something someone did to you. You’re not a bad guy, Winter. You just want to think you are.”

“I am, though. Even if I didn’t kill any of you, I’m still a vampire. We’re evil.”

“Oh, yeah? Who told you that?”

“I don’t…know. I know we kill people for food, though. That’s pretty evil.”

“So do lions and tigers. You think they’re evil?”

“No. But they’re animals. Animals are innocent.”

“You think Steve is evil?”

“No.”

“Steve’s a werewolf, man. They kill and eat people, too. But Steve’s a good guy. The best guy there is, far as I can tell. So why can’t you be a vampire and a good guy?”

“I…I don’t want to. Being good is boring and dumb and there are all kinds of confusing rules. I’d just break the rules by accident and get in trouble all the time.”

“Seems like you’re in trouble all the time, anyway. Being good couldn’t be much worse.”

The soldier’s bewildered expression suddenly changes to a scowl. “Oh. You’re trying to subvert me.”

“Subvert you? What does that even mean?”

“You’re being nice so I’ll think you’re my friend, and I’ll want to be on your side.”

“Well, I’d like you to be on our side, but I’m not trying to manipulate you. I’m just treating you like a person.”

“You say that, but you wouldn’t tell me you’re doing it anyway. You’d lie about it.”

“Do you think I’m lying to you?”

“No,” the soldier sighs. “You don’t smell like you’re lying. You smell like…bird.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that,” Falcon laughs. “I’m gonna go try and subvert you some rec time, ok? Oh, I brought you this. It’s not much, but maybe it’ll give you something to do besides thump your head on your chair.”

He digs into a utility pocket on his trousers and pulls out a fuzzy, neon-green tennis ball, which he places in the soldier’s restrained right hand. For some reason, this strikes the soldier as the kindest gesture one person could possibly extend to another. Bringing him the best ball in the world. His throat tightens with emotion, and he squeezes it tightly in his hand as he watches Falcon go. He’s going to like killing him the least.

 

 

 

 

The soldier has dropped his ball and is watching it roll across the floor, when the door opens again. He isn’t surprised to see the wolf. He’d heard him exit the elevator fifty yards down the hall. Smelled his scent shortly thereafter. His senses don’t normally work this way, but the wolf blood hasn’t worn off yet, and everything is highly amplified.

He looks the wolf up and down as he enters. He’s wearing a black shirt and combat vest, with black trousers and boots, as opposed to his standard blue t-shirt and jeans combination, and he’s carrying a black duffel bag. He stops short and watches as the ball rolls back across the floor toward the soldier, then hops up into his metal hand.

“Wow, that’s really cool,” he laughs. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I didn’t either,” the soldier says. “I dropped my ball earlier. I really wanted it back and it came back to me. I’ve been practicing doing this since.”

As he says this, he opens his hand. The ball rises from it and glides through the air toward the wolf, who catches and examines it, as if he might discover the secret to the levitation that way.

“Is it something your metal arm does?”

“What’s going on?” the soldier asks, ignoring the question. “Why are you dressed that way?”

“I heard you wanted to get out of the cage, so I have some good news,” the wolf says. “We’re taking you home.”

The soldier stares up at him. “You’re…doing what?”

“We’re delivering you to Hydra HQ.” He tosses the duffel bag on the floor. “That’s your clothes and armor. Get dressed. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“How am I supposed to get dressed, wolf? I can’t move.”

“I’ll release the restraints after I go.”

The soldier’s green eyes narrow fiercely. “The minute you release these restraints, I am going to kick that door down and kill anyone I find on my way out of this building.”

“Why?” the wolf says, throwing his hands up. “Why would you do that, when we’re about to take you exactly where you want to go?”

“Because if you’re taking me there, you have some kind of plan I’m not going to like and don’t want to be part of. I’m not stupid, wolf.”

“Please just cooperate, Buck,” the wolf sighs. “I don’t want to do this the hard way.”

The soldier glares at him defiantly.

“Ok. I’m sorry about this.”

With that, the wolf draws something out of his pocket that looks like a very small hand grenade. The soldier looks at it, then back up at the wolf. Does he mean to blow them up? That makes no sense at all. He watches dumbly as the wolf pulls the pin and drops it on the floor.

Nothing happens.

Then there is a soft hissing sound and he suddenly understands. Verbena and juniper. Poison. There is poison gas smoking out of the mouth of that little grenade. His eyes burn and he chokes and retches as it clouds the air all around him.

It sputters to a stop after a moment, and quickly begins to dissipate. Not enough has soaked into his skin to do any serious harm, but it’s enough to make him dizzy and sick to his stomach, and more importantly, weak as a kitten.

The wolf opens the door and touches some buttons on the keypad outside to disengage the restraints, then comes over and drags him to his feet. The soldier strikes impotently at him with his right hand, but the metal arm is too heavy now, and its weight causes him to stagger and reel to the left.

The wolf throws an arm around his waist to stop him falling. “You’re just gonna hurt yourself. Hold still and let me help you get changed.”

“No way you…dirty wolf,” the soldier mumbles. “You just…want to see you naked.”

“If I wanted to see myself naked I could make that happen without gassing you,” the wolf smirks. “Come on. Arms up.”

“Good then,” the soldier slurs, as the white a-shirt is pulled off over his head. “I hate that stupid shirt anyway.”

The wolf tugs his orange prison-pants down and lets them fall to the floor, then holds his arms while he steps unsteadily out of them.

“I hate those dumb pants too,” he grumbles. “And I hate you, you dumb wolf. With all your…muscles and sexy wolf smell. I wish I could bite you.”

“I bet you do,” the wolf laughs. “If you’re good and get dressed without a fuss, I’ll give you some more of my blood before we go, ok?”

“I don’t want your gross wolf blood you gross wolf. It tastes like burning. Like…hot candy. Cim…cimma—cimmamon candy. But it’s on fire.”

“You know, you’re really cute when you’re poisoned,” the wolf grins up at him, as he helps him step into his black trousers.

“I’m always cute,” the soldier says indignantly, losing his balance and almost toppling over.

The wolf catches him and lowers him to a sitting position on the edge of the metal chair. “You are always cute. Too bad you want to kill me, huh? Arms up again.”

The soldier allows his black thermal undershirt to be pulled on, then slumps back in the chair. The wolf kneels and pulls his socks and boots onto his feet, and manages to get them laced them up, despite the soldier’s fidgeting and kicking. Last, he draws the leather chest armor from the bag and stands the soldier up again to strap it on.

“All done,” he says. “That wasn’t so bad, was it.”

“Yes it was,” the soldier pouts. “My head hurts and I want to throw up and I hate everything.”

“You’ll feel better in a minute. One last thing.” Before the soldier understands what is happening, a pair of heavy handcuffs made of some metal he doesn’t recognize are snapped onto his wrists. “Sorry about these. They’re just a precaution.”

The soldier begins to reply, but the wolf has already bit into his wrist and is pushing it into his mouth. He gags on the sharp-tasting liquid at first, but he doesn’t struggle this time. He’s beginning not to mind it so much.

He thinks he might even learn to enjoy its intense and aromatic heat, that burns in the throat and warms the belly, like a high-proof liquor. He’ll be damned if the wolf finds out, though.

In any event, it clears up the fog and sickness of the poison almost instantly, and he can feel the strength flowing back into his limbs like an electric current.

“Better?” the wolf asks, looking into his face with his stupid, bright-blue eyes.

“Yes,” he says dolefully. “Let’s go.”

 

 

 

 

“I want it on the record that I’m accompanying you under protest,” the soldier declares, as he is escorted out onto the roof to meet the assembled team.

“We know, Buck,” Steve says, patting his shoulder. “You’re literally wearing handcuffs.”

“Good. Because I’m going to be in big trouble for this. And I hope you all understand that if I get free, I will try to kill you. Nothing personal.”

“We understand,” Clint says cheerfully.

“Yeah, it’s cool, man,” Sam agrees.

“Except you, witch,” the soldier adds, as an afterthought. “That will be personal.”

The witch rolls her eyes. “You are such a fucking brat, soldat. I did all of this to save us, you know.”

“I didn’t need saving. I was fine. Now I’m in handcuffs and I’m not allowed to kill anyone. I don’t even have my weapons, which is lucky for you, because—”

“Oh my god, shut up!” she exclaims. “Steve, can we put his muzzle on now?”

“My mask doesn’t stop me from talking, witch,” the soldier retorts, then he turns to Steve. “But yeah, you better put it on. I will bite people.”

Steve can’t help but smile as he fits on the soldier’s black, muzzle-like mask. He knows his friend is dangerous and violent in this state, but his general sweetness and naïveté are so endearing, it’s easy to forget that the Winter Soldier is one of the deadliest mass-murderers in history.

This done, the strike team—accompanied by Director Fury, who has come to see them off—continue across the roof toward the helipad, where a Quinjet is waiting to fly them to Hydra’s secret headquarters. If the witch is correct regarding the location and can be trusted, that is.

They have almost reached helipad, when Steve and the soldier both pause and turn to look westward, from where their wolf hearing detects an odd, high-pitched sound. It’s like the whine of a jet engine, but much smaller, and it appears to be approaching quickly.

“Oh, god damn it,” Tash hisses, as she hears the sound as well. “You guys were supposed to keep him off my back, Fury. That was part of the deal. How’d he find out I was here?”

“Don’t look at me,” Director Fury shrugs. “I don’t know how he even found the place. It’s behind a whole shitload of enchantments.”

The rest of the company stands watching curiously, as what appears to be a red and gold metallic automaton of some kind alights on the roof a few meters away. Tash strides over and stands facing it with her hands on her hips.

“What are you doing here?” she demands. “How did you find me?”

The front plate of the automaton’s face suddenly moves up and retracts, revealing a man inside. Apparently this is some kind of suit of armor.

“How did I find you!” the man says, raising his red and gold gloved hands. “Why were you hiding, Natasha?”

Steve looks at the soldier. “Natasha?”

The soldier makes an ‘I don’t know’ gesture with his cuffed hands.

“Tash is short for Natasha,” Clint whispers.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Tash says to the armored man. “I was trying to do my own thing without you interfering for once!”

“For twenty years?” he says dubiously. “I think that’s a little more than a ‘for once’ kind of thing. I’ve been worried sick about you!”

“Oh my god, you’re always smothering me like this! And you’re embarrassing me in front of my coworkers. Get out of here!”

“I don’t smother—wait, coworkers?” the man pauses and looks around at the group, who all wave awkwardly. “You’re working _with_ Shield?”

“Yes, I’m working with Shield. What did you think I was doing here?”

“I don’t know. I assumed you were playing a prank on them, or seeding chaos or something. I didn’t ask because I was trying to give you space and not…hover, you know?”

“You’ve literally been hovering, dad. I saw you fly over the building the other day. I hoped it was a coincidence, but I should have known better. You just can’t stay out of my business for a couple of fucking decades, can you.”

“Hey, you watch your language young lady,” the armored man says, with an almost successful attempt at sternness. “Don’t make me summon your mother.”

Tash tosses her head. “See if I care. You’re the one who’ll be in trouble. She told you to let me spread my wings.”

“Is there anything I can assist you with, Mr. Stark?” Director Fury says, stepping forward.

“No, no,” Mr. Stark replies. “Just a little…family matter.”

Director Fury crosses his arms. “Mr. Stark, you are on Shield property addressing one of my agents. Unless you have official business, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“This will just take a second, I promise,” Mr. Stark says. “Listen, Tasha, I’m here because I…heard a rumor that you were involved in something big, and I wanted to offer you my help.”

“Oh, a rumor, huh?” Tash says, narrowing her eyes. “You just happened to hear gossip about super top-secret ops through the grapevine.”

“Uh…well—”

“Mother!” Tash shouts at the top of her lungs, giving everyone a start.

“You don’t have to shout, pumpkin, I’m right here,” a woman’s voice says.

The voice belongs to a tall, slender, classically beautiful woman, with blue eyes and light, honey-red hair, who is suddenly standing beside Tash. She’s wearing a tailored grey skirt and a white silk blouse, but incongruently, no shoes. She smiles sweetly and waves to the group, who return the wave and then stand there looking back and forth between the two women.

“Is that—” Steve begins in a whisper.

“Tash’s mom,” Sam replies, also in a whisper. “Chaos demon. Like, the big-deal kind.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Wow.”

“Well, mom?” Tash says, crossing her arms. “You want to explain why you and dad have been spying on me?”

“Oh, sweetheart, you know how we worry about you,” the woman says, reaching out to push back her daughter’s dark-red hair. “Anyway, it’s not really _spying_ , it’s more like…covert parenting.”

“I’m five-hundred years old, mom. I don’t need parenting, covert or otherwise. And stop fixing my hair, I like it this way.”

“But you have such a pretty face, honey, you shouldn’t cover—ok, ok. I apologize for spying. But sweetheart, your father and I don’t have any other children. You’re always going to be our baby. We haven’t heard from you in a while, so when I found out you were finally taking an interest in the balance of power in this realm, I couldn’t help but be curious.”

“So you pick up the phone and call! Like a normal parent! You don’t spy on me from one of your hell gates and just show up when I’m on my way to a super important mission!”

“That’s why I’m here, babydoll,” Mr. Stark says. “I want to help with your super important…thing.”

“Exactly,” Tash’s mother nods. “We didn’t know you were working _with_ Shield, but that doesn’t change anything. We want to support you no matter what you’re doing.”

Tash pinches the bridge of her nose. “You guys are not coming with me on my mission.”

“No, of course not,” her mother laughs.

“That would be ridiculous,” her father agrees.

“So why are you _here_!”

“Well, I have something for you,” Mr. Stark says. “I knew you were up to something and I thought you might like some backup.”

“Backup?” Tash asks. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, tell her honey,” her mother says eagerly. “Your father is going to lend you some of his army, isn’t that exciting?”

“Hold on, army?” Director Fury cuts in. “Ok, now you’ve got my attention.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Tash says. “We’re leaving right now.”

“They don’t really need prep-time,” Mr. Stark replies. “They’re not, like…alive or anything.”

“What are they?” Fury asks.

“I do technological sorcery. They’re sort of…golems, but made of steel. They can fly, shoot firebolts, can’t be killed—because again, not alive—and they’re fully automated. They will do whatever my daughter needs them to do. If she wants them.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“Well, let’s not be too hasty,” Fury says. “Tash, it sounds like your parents want to send a fighting force with you that might actually give you a chance to escape if your stupid-ass plan goes wrong. Maybe we should take it.”

“Stupid-ass?” Steve says indignantly. “It’s a good plan.”

“It’s a really stupid plan,” the soldier assists.

“You don’t even know the plan, Buck.”

“I don’t have to. I know it’s stupid. There’s no way the five of you can breach Hydra HQ on your own.”

“Well, it looks like you just acquired some troops,” Fury says. “I assume they can keep up with the Quinjet and won’t trip Hydra’s security barriers?”

“They can more than keep up,” Mr. Stark assures him. “And they’re fully stealthed. Undetectable by wards, scrying, telepathy, you name it.”

“That was my idea,” Tash’s mother beams. “I added the arcane stealth function.”

“Excuse me,” Steve says approaching Tash and her parents. “I don’t mean to be impolite, Mrs. uh…”

“Pepper,” Tash’s mother says, holding out her hand.

Steve shakes the proffered hand. “Pepper. No offense, ma’am, but if you’re a chaos demon, why would you do anything to help Shield? They’re the good guys. They’re working against chaos.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of chaos, Captain Rogers,” she smiles. “Don’t you worry about that. Besides, my husband and daughter are pretty attached to this realm. I wouldn’t want to see it destroyed outright. Maybe I’m going soft, but falling in love just…changes your perspective on things. You know how it is, you’re in love.”

Steve’s face flushes crimson. “I—no, I’m…I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course not,” she winks. “Anyway, if Natasha wants to swing the balance a little in favor of good, then what kind of mother would I be if I didn’t do what I could to support her?”

“You’re right to look out for your family, ma’am. In that case, we’re grateful for your help. You and Mr. Stark.”

“No problem,” Mr. Stark says affably. “Hey, is that the Winter Soldier? Honey, look! That’s the Winter Soldier!”

“I see that,” Pepper says. “How’s it going, soldat?”

“Fine, I guess,” the soldier says glumly. “Except they took all my weapons and I’m going to be in trouble when I get back to Hydra.”

“Oh, I’m sure you won’t be in that much trouble. It’s not like you’ve got a choice. Say, do you remember when we ran into each other in Berlin that time, and you were talking about a boy who—”

“He doesn’t remember, mom,” Tash interrupts, in an undertone. “Hydra fucked up his brain. He doesn’t even know who he is.”

“That’s too bad,” Pepper frowns. “Well, you look fantastic, darling. I love the muzzle.”

“Thanks,” the soldier says. “It stops me biting people, but it does look kind of cool.”

“So, what do you say, honeybun?” Mr. Stark asks. “You gonna take my guys?”

Tash sighs resignedly. “Ugh, fine. But I’m not returning them.”

“Totally cool,” Mr. Stark says. “They’re made to be disposable. When you’re done with them, just let go of the psychic link, and they’ll turn back into useless scrap metal.”

“Where are they? We need to get going.”

“Oh, they’re already here. I concealed them because I didn’t want to freak anyone out.”

Mr. Stark makes a theatrical sweeping gesture with his hand, and the strike team give a collective start, peering about, wide-eyed. Standing all over the roof, in orderly files, are around a hundred things that look just like Mr. Stark’s armor, only they’re grey, and their eyes and the orbs in the centers of their chests glow red, rather than blue, like his.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Fury chuckles. “I guess there is something to all the stories about you, Stark.”

Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow. “Stories? What kind of stories?”

“In a minute Tony,” Pepper chides. “Wish your daughter good luck, then you can get your ego stroked.”

“Good luck, princess!” Mr. Stark calls after Tash, who is already stalking off toward the waiting Quinjet. “Have a great time!”

“We’re so proud of you, baby!” Pepper adds. “Kill lots of…whoever!”

The rest of the strike team bid Tash’s unusual parents a hasty farewell, and hurry away to join her on board. Pepper and Mr. Stark remain on the roof, waving and smiling encouragingly as the aircraft takes off. The platoon of steel men ascend simultaneously, and fly behind it in perfect aerial formation, like a flock of wildly oversized and unusually heavily-armored geese, vanishing rapidly into the night sky. 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

 

 

The Quinjet shudders as it drops out of supersonic speed over the Barents sea, between Finland and Russia. Steve would be astonished at having made the six-thousand kilometer journey from New York in less than two hours, but he’s too focused on his friend to care much.

The soldier had been playing with his ball, but lost his privileges after he’d sent it pinging off the witch’s head, and has been sitting sullenly, staring at the floor since. Steve wishes he could comfort him somehow, but he doubts such a gesture would be welcome.

“Hey, Wanda,” Clint calls from the pilot’s seat. “There’s no island showing on the GPS or radar anywhere near the coordinates you gave us. You sure you got it right?”

“I am sure,” Wanda answers, going over to point to a spot on his screen. “It is here. Your instruments will not pick it up, but you will see it when we are closer. Hopefully we will not be detected.”

“We won’t,” Tash says. “I’ll send some of my dad’s guys ahead to scout as soon as we land. They can give us aerials on the fortress and surrounding area, tell us where the guards and patrols are. Where do we want to breach?”

“The necromancer is in the lower level that used to be the dungeons,” Wanda says. “There is a closed passage and a staircase leading to small door in the outer wall, from which dead prisoners were carried away to the pits in the old days. We can travel through it undetected directly to the dungeons”

“Won’t the door be guarded?” Steve asks.

Wanda shakes her head. “Not heavily. No one is foolish enough to try to go _into_ the dungeons.”

“Except us,” Sam grins.

“Not all of us,” the soldier mutters.

“What’s the matter, Buck?” Steve asks, nudging him with an elbow. “You’re not excited to be going home?”

The soldier frowns at him. “Why do you keep calling me that, wolf? A buck is a male deer. I’m not a deer. I’m a vampire.”

“You keep calling me wolf.”

“You’re a wolf.”

“Well, my name is Steve, not wolf. And your name is Bucky.”

“That’s an idiotic name and no it isn’t. My name is Winter or soldier. Even the sorcerer and the chaos demon knew that.”

“Exactly. And how did they know that? Do you remember meeting them before?”

“No.”

“But they remember you. They know you and you don’t know them. So maybe you don’t know everything about yourself.”

The soldier glares at him for a beat, then turns his eyes back to the floor.

“Steve, give him a break,” Tash says. “Why antagonize him now?”

“He’s afraid,” the soldier answers. “I can smell it all over him. He thinks there’s something wrong with me and he thinks being rude to me will help for some reason.”

“There’s a lot of shit wrong with you, Buck,” Steve sighs. “That’s why we’re doing this.”

“I’m not the one who uses a Frisbee as a weapon and turns into a dog,” the soldier retorts.

“Ok, you two, don’t make me tap the no talking sign,” Clint calls back to them.

“Look,” the witch says, pointing out the cockpit window. “There it is.”

“Scanning now,” Sam says, tapping his screen. “Yep. I see it. The fortress is on the southern point.”

“I’ll take us down on the far side of the island and we can make our way on foot through the forest,” Clint says. “Everyone secure yourselves for landing.”

Wanda goes back to her seat beside Tash and straps in, as the Quinjet swings northeast and makes a slow arc down toward the small, rocky, forested island. Clint brings the aircraft to a halt over a large enough clearing in the forest, and makes a tolerably smooth vertical landing.

They don’t see the steel golems, but they have been flying under an invisibility cloak, as has the jet. They wait as Tash instructs a few to scout the fortress, some to fly perimeter sweeps of the island, and the rest to remain on standby and guard the jet.

After about twenty minutes, the scouts communicate to her that the patrols at the gates and on the battlements are light, and that they have found the door in the northeast wall, where only four guards are posted. The team disembark, preparing themselves for the first attempt at an assault on Hydra HQ since Shield has existed. Steve hopes he’s not leading them all to their deaths.

“How do you want to do this, Cap?” Clint asks, as he straps on his bow and quiver.

“I’ll take point,” Steve says. “Falcon, there’s no need for aerial support since Tash’s iron men have that covered, so you and Hawkeye keep an eye on our flanks and rear. Wanda, Tash, stay behind me with Winter, and keep him quiet. We don’t need to alert the entire place that we’re coming.”

“With pleasure, Steve,” Wanda says. “Be a good boy and keep quiet, soldat.”

“You can’t tell me what to—” the soldier begins.

His voice is abruptly cut off as a red tendril curls out from the witch’s aura snakes inside his mask. He tosses his head indignantly, then stands there glowering at her.

“Ooh, that’s useful,” Tash says. “Good work, Wanda.”

“Thank you. I’ve been wanting an excuse to shut him up.” Wanda smiles sweetly at the soldier.

He takes a sudden step backward, like a horse shying, but he isn’t looking at her anymore. He’s staring wide-eyed at something behind her. She and Tash turn around to follow his gaze, and their jaws drop.

Where Steve had been standing a moment ago, there is a white and golden-brown wolf, with bright-gold eyes, only it is not the size of any wolf species known to science. Its body is larger than that of a full-grown lion, and it stands nearly as high as a man, even on four legs. It blinks at them and cocks its massive head to one side, like a friendly dog.

“Steve?” Wanda says, in a tremulous voice.

The wolf opens its maw and makes a soft, warbling sound.

“Awww, you’re so cute! Guys, look how cute wolf Steve is!” Tash exclaims. She holds out her hand, and it trots over and lowers its head to be scratched behind its ears. “Your fur is so soft! What a good, big boy you are, wolf Steve!”

The soldier looks on in frank disgust as Tash pets the thing and hugs it around its huge neck. Wolf Steve looks eminently pleased with himself, and wags his tail energetically as Wanda cautiously strokes his velvety muzzle. Clint comes over and lays a hand on his side, then rests his head against it.

“Wow, he is soft,” he laughs. “And really fucking huge. I thought werewolves were the size of regular wolves.”

“Ok, everyone get it outta your systems now,” Sam says, keeping his distance. “Then no more petting Steve till we’re done with this thing.”

“Come on, you big baby,” Clint says. “He’s not gonna bite you.”

Sam shakes his head. “Nah, I think I’m good over here, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Tash says, ruffling the fur on top of wolf Steve’s head.

He nips at her playfully in response, then lets his tongue loll happily out of the side of his mouth as she scratches under his chin and hugs his neck again. After a moment, he warbles and turns to face the direction of the fortress.

“I think that means let’s go,” Sam says. “Everyone follow the wolf and keep your eyes open.”

The wolf leaps forward and lopes off silently, darting between trees like a white flash. The rest of the team set off at as good a pace as they can make, following its general track as they pick their way more carefully through the undergrowth. Within a few minutes, he comes trotting back, circles the group, and lopes off again. He repeats this process once more, and when he returns the third time, he’s back in his tall, blonde human form. The soldier smells blood on him.

“I took care of the guards at the door,” Steve says. “Hurry up. We’ve got to get inside before someone notices they haven’t checked in.”

The group speeds their pace, and soon they are crossing the clearing between the dense forest and the high, stone walls of the Hydra fortress. There are no bodies and no blood near the door, but the soldier smells death. Maybe this wolf isn’t as docile and stupid as he seems.

Wanda approaches the door and sends her red aura streaming out of her hands. The lock disengages, and the door swings open, revealing a small, dark passage, and stone steps leading downward. The group crowds inside, and the door bangs shut behind them, plunging the place into blackness. Steve can see just fine, as can the soldier, but the others pause, uncertain what to do.

“I got a light,” Tash’s voice says.

They blink as a bright flame bursts into existence, illuminating her and flickering on the walls around them. She walks ahead, holding up the little ball of fire in the palm of her hand to light the way, followed single-file by the soldier, then Wanda, then Hawkeye and Falcon, with Steve serving as rearguard.

The air in the tunnel is frigid and stale, and their footsteps hiss and echo all around them, like warning whispers. The stone floor is ancient and worn, but bears a thin layer of dust, indicating that it has been in disuse for a long time. After about a hundred yards, the hallway widens and they spot a pair of large, wooden doors ahead. There are iron handles, but the doors hold fast when pulled upon, as if barred from the other side.

“One sec,” Tash says, putting out her light.

They stand in the dark for a moment, then there is a scraping sound and the doors creak open, admitting a shaft of dingy, grey light into the passage. Tash’s face peers around the door on the left.

“There was a wooden bar sitting on brackets like in an old castle,” she whispers. “Who the fuck uses those anymore?”

“Hydra, I guess,” Steve whispers back. “Wanda, you’re on. Where are we headed?”

“Straight down this passage to the end,” she says. “The hallway branches right and left, but both circle around and open into the main chamber. The necromancer is there.”

“How do you know he’s there now?” Steve asks. “You can sense him or something?”

“He does not leave. You will understand when you see him.”

“Ok, everyone, be prepared. Eyes open, mouths shut, stay alert. We don’t know what kind of tricks this guy has up his sleeve, or what else might be waiting for us.” Steve holds out his hand and his shield materializes in it. “Lead the way, Wanda.”

Wanda steps ahead and leads the group cautiously, choosing the left hall, where the old stonework suddenly gives way to more modern concrete walls and floor. They follow the curve of the hall to a large, square doorway with no doors, that opens on a vast, gloomy chamber lit by a few fluorescent lights in the high ceiling.

Steve stops, blinking. There are rows upon rows of large, metal things that look like bookcases, but with electronic panels full of blinking lights all over them. Far away, in the center of the room, he sees what looks like a mission control station, with a large screen and some keyboards.

“What is this?” he whispers. “There’s no one here.”

“The necromancer,” Wanda says. “This is him. All of it.”

Just as she is saying this, the screen above the control panel blinks to life, showing the still image of a goblin-like man with thick spectacles.

“Ah, you have brought back the soldier,” a nasal, German-accented voice says from all around them. “How very kind.”

“Who are you?” Steve says, stepping into the room. “How are you talking to us?”

“My name was Dr. Arnim Zola,” the voice replies. “These days I am most usually called necromancer. I am speaking to you from the audio system in the walls. Please do not touch anything. You are standing inside my brain.”

“It looks like a bunch of telephone switchboards,” Steve says, approaching the control panel, followed by Tash, Wanda, and the soldier. “How is this your brain?”

“I transferred my consciousness to these machines. This is how I have survived these many years to continue my work. The collar on the soldier is one of my creations. I see that the witch has got free of hers, though.”

“We want you to remove the collar from our friend,” Steve says. “Do that, and we’ll leave your mechanical brain intact instead of turning it into a scrap heap.”

“I am afraid I cannot do that, Captain Rogers,” the necromancer laughs. “But the restraints on his wrists, I will take care of those. I have summoned the guards. They will be here momentarily.”

There is a crackling sound, followed by the clatter of the soldier’s restraints on the concrete, as the thunder of heavy boots running on the floors above them resounds through the chamber. The doors along the steel walkways burst open, just as Steve is knocked backward by a powerful blow to chest.

He sails at least ten feet and slides to a stop on his back, and the soldier is on him like a jungle cat, swinging his metal fist. He blocks the blow with his shield and shouts to the team to deal with the guards. Tash is already up on the walkway, hurling men through the air over his head. He sees Falcon leap up to join her, as the soldier wrenches his shield from his hand and tosses it away.

He barely avoids the metal fist, which cracks and splits the concrete beside his head. He uses the opportunity to deal the soldier a sharp jab to his face, which knocks his mask off and stuns him long enough for Steve to throw him off and leap to his feet.

The vast chamber is in chaos. Machine-gun fire rattles and echoes as the guards continue to swarm in the doors like black-clad ants. Arrows are flying from Hawkeye’s bow and Wanda is warding off bullets with her red aura. The soldier holds out his hands, and long, black-bladed knives appear in them.

“Come on, Buck, please,” Steve says. “We don’t have to do this.”

“I told you, wolf,” the soldier snarls. “I have to kill you.”

“Tash!” Wanda yells above the din. “I know how to stop him! There is a power source here, but I can’t do it myself!”

“Just a minute!” Tash calls back, sending two more guards tumbling over the railing. “Falcon, Hawkeye, can you hold them off?”

“We got it!” Falcon calls back. “You do your thing!”

Tash vanishes and appears beside Wanda, and the two sprint off into the forest of electronic panels, just as the soldier darts toward Steve like a black blur, spinning and slashing with his knives. Steve manages to deflect the blows and knock the knife out of his flesh hand, but the metal hand comes around and drives the other one deep into his side. Blood soaks through his shirt and trickles down his stomach as the soldier yanks out the knife.

Steve’s eyes ignite with amber-gold fire, and he bares his long fangs. “Don’t do this, Buck! I don’t want to hurt you!”

The soldier slashes at him again. He dodges back to avoid the blade, which the soldier tosses up and catches in his right hand, while he lands a devastating left hook to Steve’s face with the metal fist. Steve falls to the ground, bleeding from a deep cut below his eye.

The soldier leaps upon him and plants a knee in his stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs. Steve grabs the metal wrist with both hands, but the knife in the soldier’s right hand plunges in again, slipping between his ribs to pierce his lung. He loses his grip on the metal arm, choking on the blood flowing into his larynx.

The soldier swings back and slams his steel fist into Steve’s face like a sledgehammer. Blood spatters across the concrete floor. The soldier’s fist flies back and comes down again, cracking bone, and making Steve’s vision go blurry and black in one eye. He throws his arm back a third time.

“Can’t…breathe…” Steve rasps weakly, blood bubbling out from between his lips. “Please…”

The soldier’s fist hangs frozen in the air. He stares dumbstruck into the wolf’s battered face. Something is happening. His mind is breaking.

The world around him is abruptly yanked away, like the film being pulled off a projector, and he is walking across that bridge again. It’s dark out, and he’s wearing those outdated grey trousers and white button-down shirt. He’s flipping the cigarette lighter open and closed in his pocket. Running his tongue over his fangs. Out looking for blood.

He hears the odd, rasping sound from a way behind him and turns to look. It’s a kid. A skinny little blonde kid in baggy trousers and a shirt that’s way too big for him. It’s him making that sound. Is there something wrong with him? All the sudden, the kid doubles over and topples off the bridge. What the fuck?

Bucky hears the muted splash as the small body hits the water far below. He doesn’t think about what he’s doing till he’s already plunging headfirst into the deep, black river. He can’t see the kid in this murky crap, but he can hear his heartbeat as he gets dragged downstream by the current.

It takes less than sixty seconds to reach him and grab his bony little body. Who the fuck has been starving this kid? He hangs onto him with one hand as he cuts through the water like a knife, and leaps out onto the bank, where he drops the wet sack of clothes on the ground and kneels over him.

Fuck me, he’s not breathing. Uggghhh fine. He pushes the kid’s mouth open and covers it with his, breathing air into his lungs and pumping it out like a bellows. Come on, buddy, breathe. I forbid you to die. This is gross, and I’m not having all this effort wasted just to have to get rid of a ten-year-old’s corpse. After a tense minute, the kid chokes and starts thrashing. Thank fuck.

“Hey, you’re ok,” Bucky smiles. “You’re not gonna die.”

The kid is ash-white, though, and he keeps clutching his bird-boned chest. “Can’t…breathe…please.”

Shit. He can’t breathe cause there’s something else wrong with him. His lungs are still making that horrible wheezing sound and his heart is going a mile a minute. He needs to calm down or he really is gonna die.

“I got you, pal. Come here,” Bucky says soothingly, pulling the boy into his arms. “I’m gonna breathe with you, ok?”

The kid is confused and scared. He struggles at first, but he’s comically weak, even compared to a regular man, let alone this iron-hard demon who’s only wearing a man’s face. Bucky holds the fragile little chest firmly against his and begins to take slow, deep breaths.

“Just like me. In…out,” he says. “Good. Again. In…out. You’re gonna be ok, kid. In…out.”

He keeps doing this till he can feel the kid’s chest start rising and falling more regularly. He’s still shaking like a leaf and his lungs don’t sound nearly as strong as Bucky would like, but he guesses this is the kid’s usual way of breathing. He must have one of those lung things. What was it…asthma.

The kid writhes free all the sudden and falls on all fours to puke water all over the muddy ground. Bucky is inclined to be disgusted, but the kid’s scared and he’s in pain, and he’s just a little boy. When he’s done puking and sobbing, Bucky uses his own handkerchief to wipe his face off (which he promptly tosses away, cause gross), then he asks him where he lives. The kid manages to stammer out an address, which is just a couple blocks away.

He doesn’t freak out when Bucky picks him up. He just wraps his skinny, trembling little arms around his neck and drops his head on his shoulder. Bucky hopes he won’t notice how cold his skin is. If he does, he can just say it’s from diving into the river. He pets his wet, blonde head and says whatever reassuring things he can think of as he carries him home.

The kid’s mother is a mess with worry, but she’s a nice-looking woman. Thin, like the kid, and she’s got a kind face. Honest and good. Their tiny, shabby apartment is spotless, and he can see all the clever little ways she tries to make it cheerful and homey, despite their obvious poverty.

There’s a framed picture of a handsome, blonde man in a military uniform on a shelf, with a candle and some dried flowers by it. So that’s pop and he’s dead. Sad. Mom keeps thanking Bucky and tries to give him all the coins and bills from her little purse.

“Nah, I couldn’t take it, ma’am,” Bucky says, flashing his screen-star smile. “You just make sure the boy lays off the accidental swimming for a while. Have a good night. See you around, pal.”

He pats the kid’s blonde head again and strolls away, while the mother waves after him and calls out more of her effusive thanks. Poor mom. No money, no man in the house to take care of ‘em. What a shitty way to live. But at least her boy is alive.

Those big, bright-blue eyes haunt Bucky’s dreams while he sleeps that day. They’re there when he wakes up, too. Burned into his mind, looking at him like he’s some kind of angel and not a fucking cold-blooded predator. They damn near rip his heart out when he’s hunting later that night. That kid looked at a monster and saw a good man. A man who saved his life. Fuck.

After a week or two the dreams stop. The blue eyes quit popping up to stare at him all full of innocence and trust while he’s tossing the empty husk of a human being into the gutter. He’s almost back to normal, when he turns around and sees the kid across the street, looking at him that same way. Like he’s a man and not a monster.

God damn it. He’s literally standing here talking to his dinner, kid. Don’t get any heroic ideas. And don’t fucking talk to the monster, whatever you do. Bucky smiles and winks, and presses his finger to his lips. The kid seems to get the message. Stuffs his hands in his pockets and keeps walking.

Bucky can’t kill the girl. Not after the kid looked right at him like that. He drains her till she passes out and leaves her in the hotel room. No big deal. But the same thing happens the next time. Hunt, bite, then those big, stupid, bright-blue eyes open up in his mind and he can’t kill the guy. Fucking fuck.

The third time it happens, it’s a pattern. The fourth, it’s starting to seriously freak him out. He sits in an all-night diner shaking like a junkie as he tries to sip his coffee. He gets out of there and walks to clear his mind.

He winds up on the bridge, staring down into the black water like it’s gonna show him the secrets of the universe. Maybe…maybe it’s not so bad. He’s not starving, he’s just not killing anyone. That’s something, isn’t it? Not killing?

Turns out it is something. He starts to feel better about himself and living this way, off the blood of human beings. Maybe he can’t be a good man, but he can be less of a monster. He thinks about the kid next time he drains some poor fool and leaves him alive. Thank the wheezy little blonde who lives on fifth, pal. He saved your pathetic life.

He can’t ever tell the kid, though. He can’t say out loud to some innocent child, thank you for giving a monster a chance to be a human being again. Thank you for letting me feel what it’s like to be the good guy instead of the bad guy, for the first time since I died and came back a bloodsucking demon all those years ago. You might be a skinny asthmatic with brittle bones, but you’re a hero to me, kid.

He’s thinking about this when looks in a shop window and spots a comic book with a big, blonde, blue-eyed superhero on the cover. Next time he sees the kid, he walks by and pushes it into his hand as a kind of lame thank you. The kid gives him a huge, bright smile that feels like Christmas and sunshine and puppies and all that heartwarming shit all at once.

Whenever he’s in Brooklyn after that, Bucky makes sure he’s got something on him to give the kid, in case he runs into him. He’s not looking for him or anything, he just happens to be around the same places sometimes. Like, once a week. Or twice if there’s a holiday or something. It feels good. Almost like he’s got a friend.

Sure, his buddy is like ten years old or whatever, and they don’t talk cause Bucky is shit-terrified that he’ll corrupt the kid somehow just by being near him, but it sort of feels like what friendship is supposed to feel like. A friend is someone who makes you want to be better than you are, right?

Few years vanish like nothing. Like they always do. Bucky’s gotta leave the States now, or look like a fucking draft-dodger. For some stupid reason, he feels like he should let his buddy know he’s not gonna be around anymore.

That night, he stops by the shabby two-room apartment, thinking he’s gonna say goodbye or something. He sees the kid and his mother through the window, laughing and talking over their little home-cooked dinner. He can’t make himself do it.

He’s a monster, and they’re good and pure. Saving one life doesn’t wash that kind of thing out. He’s got no right to come into their clean house and dirty it up with his presence. He watches them for a minute, then he smiles to himself and walks away.

The kid’s gonna be ok. Someone’ll look out for him, and it won’t be a demon with a pretty smile and a mouth full of blood.

A mouth full of blood.

All the sudden, the memory flips upside down, and he has his mouth on the kid’s mouth again, breathing big, frantic breaths into his lungs. Only this time the kid’s mouth is full of blood. After a desperate minute, he chokes and shoves Bucky away, looking up at him with that same stupefied expression in his big, bright-blue eyes. But his face is different. Older. And he’s bleeding from his mouth and cut under his left eye.

“Sorry,” Bucky pants. “You said you—couldn’t breathe. I kind of…panicked.”

Steve studies him warily. “Bucky?”

“No, Steve, I’m your notary. I’m here to certify a document.”

“Buck! You’re you!” Steve exclaims, then groans and clutches his ribcage. “Fuck, that hurts.”

Bucky looks down to see blood soaking through Steve’s stupid, black combat vest onto the concrete floor. “Christ, Steve! You’re bleeding all over the place!”

“Well, yeah. You stabbed me.”

“Oh. Right. I’m…sorry.” Bucky’s eyes go hazy and his head lolls drunkenly to one side. “I…I think I’m gonna die now.”

Steve sits bolt upright and grabs his shoulders. “What? What do you mean?”

“The collar. It’s…burning. I can…feel it burning.”

Bucky claws weakly at his throat, then crumples forward. There’s smoke rising from the neck of his leather armor. At that moment, there is a deafening explosion. The shockwave hits Steve and almost knocks him back down.

“Steve!” Tash’s voice shouts from somewhere. “Get the collar off him now!”

Steve tosses Bucky onto his back on the ground and straddles his waist. His shield materializes in his hand. “Hold still, Buck.”

Bucky’s green eyes stare helplessly up at him. He raises the shield with both hands and brings the edge down like a guillotine on Bucky’s neck. The broken fragments of the steel ring clink onto the concrete.

Steve drops the shield and looks frantically down into his face. “Buck? Are you ok?”

“I’m—I’m ok,” Bucky says. “Come here.”

“What is it, Buck?” Steve asks softly, as Bucky takes hold of his shirt, pulling him down close to his face.

“What the fucking fuck, Steve! You almost cut off my fucking head what the fuck were you thinking!” He pauses and scowls. “What are you laughing about, you asshole?”

“I knew you liked me,” Steve grins.

“What?”

“Well, I mean, you kissed me, so…”

Bucky rolls his eyes and lets go of his shirt. “It was not a kiss, Steve. You were drowning in your own blood. I had to do something.”

Steve keeps smiling his stupid, sunny smile and looking down at him with those stupid, bright-blue eyes. Jesus fucking Christ, that asthmatic little bag of toothpicks sure grew up handsome. Who would’ve thought.

“Hey, I want to ask you something,” Steve says, laying his big, warm hand on Bucky’s cheek

Bucky swallows hard. “Ok.”

“I was just wondering if you would…maybe not stab me anymore? It really hurts.”

“Steve,” Bucky says calmly. “Get the fuck off me, or I will stab you again right now.”

“You don’t even have a knife, Buck,” Steve smirks, as he hops up and pulls Bucky to his feet.

Bucky holds out his hand and one of the black-bladed knives leaps into it. “You were saying?”

Steve glances around, suddenly realizing the room has grown eerily silent. The guards are no longer streaming in, and the others are all looking up at one of the doors, through which an old man in a grey suit is stepping.

“I see you have destroyed the necromancer,” the old man says, in a weathered, weary voice. “Wanda, you must be pleased. And you, soldat, you have got your mind back. How very heartwarming.”

“You are next old man,” Wanda growls, her red aura flaring up around her.

“Yes, I supposed you would kill me,” the old man says. “But perhaps you will allow me to say one thing to Captain Rogers, before I go.”

“I’m listening,” Steve says.

“Captain Rogers, my name is Helmut Zemo. You do not know me. But I know you. After your gang of werewolf abominations was captured and executed, you returned and killed all thirty-seven men in the S.S. squad responsible. One of these men was my father, Gerhardt Zemo. They showed me photographs of his eviscerated corpse, and they told me who was responsible.

I was only eight years old, but when I was grown, I continued his legacy. I traveled to the USSR and joined the faithful there, who you call the fanatics. Together, we revived Hydra. I spent my entire life searching for you, and laying my plans. When it was discovered that you had returned, I set this plan in motion.

I knew you would not kill my soldier. I knew you would bring him back here, seeking to save his life. And now you are together again. I hope that you will find it satisfying, to watch each other die.”

“We destroyed your necromancer,” Steve replies. “The collar is broken. You can’t kill him now.”

“Indeed, your demon assisted the witch, and destroyed the source of Zola’s power. The mind stone. I could not do it myself, and so I thank you. It was the only thing holding back the hydra.”

Steve frowns. “That…makes no sense. What do you mean?”

The old man stands silent, smiling tranquilly, as the ground beneath their feet begins to rumble and shudder. The walls tremble, and the sound of glass breaking echoes through the open doors.

“Tash,” Steve says. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Something…ancient,” she breathes. “Ravenous. It’s coming. We can’t fight this thing, Steve. No one can. We need to run!”

The end of her sentence is drowned by the thundering crash, as a third of the concrete ceiling comes crashing down around them, filling the air with choking dust and debris. In the distance, even above the cacophony of crumbling masonry and twisting metal, Steve hears a sound like the roaring of a thousand oceans, rising up to swallow the earth into the abyss.

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

 

 

“Everyone alive?” Tash calls out from somewhere in the haze of dust.

“We are,” Steve calls back. “Bucky and me.”

“As alive as some of us get,” Bucky adds.

“We’re good,” Sam and Clint confirm.

“Wanda’s unconscious,” Tash says. “She went down in the blast after we took out that crystal. Falcon can you carry her out?”

“Sure thing, Tash,” Sam replies, coming over to accept Wanda into his arms. “I’m gonna take her straight up through the middle. I doubt anyone’s left alive in here to shoot at us.”

“Where’s Zemo?” Steve asks. “Anyone see what happened to him?”

“Lost eyes on him when the roof caved,” Clint answers. “If he survived, he’s not in good shape.”

“He’s not our priority right now,” Tash says, looking up at the ragged, gaping hole through the center of the building, left by the collapse of the roof and the floors above them. “We have to get out of here before anything else falls on us. Steve’s the only one of us who can’t fly or teleport, right?”

“Yeah, but I’ll find a way through,” Steve says. “You guys go.”

“I’m staying with him,” Bucky says, stepping to Steve’s side. “We’ll climb out.”

“Good,” Tash nods. “If we don’t see you in five minutes, we’ll rendezvous at the jet.”

Sam’s wings materialize as Tash vanishes, and he leaps into the air, bearing Wanda up toward the patch of starry sky, visible through the wreckage of the building.

“You guys be careful,” Clint says to Steve and Bucky. “Don’t make me come back looking for you.”

“We will,” Steve says, clasping his hand in a brothers-at-arms manner. “See you outside.”

He and Bucky watch as Clint’s body begins to shimmer and becomes translucent, then bursts outward into what appears to be a gigantic hawk made of starlight. The hawk spreads its wings and soars silently up through the debris after Sam.

“Buck, come on, this is ridiculous,” Steve says, as they begin to pick their way through the rubble. “Do that thing where you turn into smoke and get out of here. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not leaving without you,” Bucky replies flatly.

“There’s no reason for you to put your life in danger,” Steve insists. “This whole thing could come down at any time.”

As if on cue, the floor beneath them tilts suddenly, sending heavy chunks of rubble sliding across it, and tumbling in through the caved-in ceiling. Bucky and Steve hang onto a large section of fallen concrete to steady themselves, then begin again, as the ground stabilizes.

“Look, we can climb up through there,” Bucky says, pointing to a place where the rebar-embedded concrete blocks have made a sort of steep, rough slope. “That’s the ground floor.”

As he is saying this, another huge chunk of masonry breaks free and comes hurtling down right on top of them. Before Bucky can blink, Steve has pulled him close against his body and thrown his shield protectively over their heads. The gigantic piece of concrete shakes Steve’s arm with the heavy impact, making a dull, cracking thud as it breaks apart.

“This is exactly what I mean,” Steve says. “Just vamp out of here, this is really dangerous.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not without you.”

Steve sighs. “Buck, there’s no sense in both of us getting buried in here. If you—”

“Not without you!” Bucky snarls, his green eyes sparking with anger. “I didn’t pull your skinny ass out of that river just to abandon you in a Hydra hellhole, Steve! If you die, I die with you, that’s the way it is!”

Steve stares down into his face, blue eyes wide, and lips parted in wonder. “You…remember? You remember me?”

Bucky scowls and he looks away. “I didn’t before. I do now.”

“Then you know,” Steve says eagerly. “You know you saved my—”

“We can talk about it later,” Bucky cuts him off, as the building shudders again, and another section of wall tumbles into the pit. “As much as I’d love being buried alive, I’d rather it not be here.”

They scale the pile of wreckage without much difficulty and find themselves on the next floor up.

“Fuck me,” Bucky mutters, gazing around at the destruction. “The main entrance is totally buried. And there are no windows at ground level.”

“We’ll have climb up another floor,” Steve says, pointing to the newly collapsed section of wall above them. “That last cave-in opened up the front wall a little. We can get up over there.”

The remaining floor reels and shudders, and masonry rains down all around them like huge hailstones.

“It’s coming down!” Bucky shouts, over the noise. 

Steve grabs his hand and they scramble up the pile of sliding debris, in a mad dash for the gap in the crumbling walls. They reach the opening and hurl themselves out, getting as clear of the building as they can, just as the whole thing implodes with a thundering crash.

The dust is so thick, they can’t see the ground below them, so they strike it unprepared and go tumbling down the short, rocky slope, till they roll to a stop on the soft grass. A sudden gust of wind tears across the island, whipping the stinging dust of the wreck into their faces as they struggle to their feet.

“If the old man survived the first collapse, he’s dead now,” Bucky says, gazing into the crater where the Hydra fortress had stood.

“Hey, Tash, I see ‘em!” Sam’s voice calls out, from somewhere above them. “You guys sure like to cut shit close, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up, bird!” Bucky shouts back. “We almost got fucking buried alive!”

“That’s the Winter I know,” Sam laughs, as he descends nearby.

Steve frowns up at the murky, grey clouds rolling across the sky. “Where did all this come from? It was clear a few minutes ago, now it looks like a storm.”

“Yeah, sorry to spoil your near-entombment experience,” Sam says, indicating toward the sea to the south. “But it looks like we’ve got bigger problems than a few storm clouds.”

Tash, Clint, and Wanda come running up as Steve and Bucky turn to look out over the ocean. Just off the island’s southern point, the black water is in furious turmoil beneath the lowering sky, almost as if the ocean is boiling.

“What’s doing that?” Bucky asks.

The six companions grab hold of each other to steady themselves as the ground trembles beneath their feet. At the same moment, a series of what appear to be explosions thunder out from the area of the strange disturbance in the sea, spewing up white jets of foam.

The group can do nothing but stare in awestruck horror, as something rises in the plumes of water. None of them have adequate terms to identify what they are seeing. They look like enormous, black dragon heads, at least the size of two-story houses, complete with scales and elongated snouts and twisted horns, hung about with shreds of seaweed.

The heads are attached to long, serpentine necks, which sway and undulate as they snake up higher and higher, rising hundreds of feet in the air above the island, like writhing skyscrapers.

“Tash, what are they?” Steve says hoarsely.

“It’s the hydra,” she answers, in an equally strained voice.

Bucky turns to Sam. “You said it wasn’t a literal hydra, bird.”

“Who the fuck thinks a literal hydra exists, man?” Sam retorts. “I told you what I was told.”

“What do we do?” Steve asks.

Tash looks at him. “We run.”

“We can’t just leave,” he says, shaking his head. “This thing could hurt innocent people.”

“Trust me, Steve, this is way out of our pay-grade,” Tash replies. “I’m sending the golems to distract it. Maybe you guys can make it to the jet before it takes the whole island down.”

As she is saying this, all of the heads open their gaping maws and let out a deafening, screaming roar. The six team members crouch instinctively, clutching their ears, as Tash’s army of steel men go soaring overhead to meet the beast. A volley of firebolts flashes out, exploding in bright flames against the oil-black scales on the massive necks. The beast screams again, and its heads whip toward the attacking golems, thrashing and snapping their jaws.

“Go!” Tash barks. “I’m staying here to direct the golems! I’ll catch up!”

Wanda throws her arms around Sam, and they fly off in the direction of the Quinjet, followed by Clint in his spirit-falcon form. Steve remains standing at the cliff’s edge beside Tash, gazing fixedly up at the beast.

“Steve, come on,” Bucky says. “Tash can teleport to us when she needs to. She’ll be ok.”

“How thick do you think those scales are?” Steve asks, cocking his head curiously to one side.

“Absolutely not,” Tash says, seeing his shield materialize in his hand. “Do not attack this thing, Steve, you’re not going to do anything but get its attention.”

Steve smiles. “I think I might do a little better than that.”

Before she can reply, he sprints off along the cliffside, spins like an Olympic discus thrower, and sends the shield flying toward the beast like a shot from a gun. Tash and Bucky stare in frank disbelief as the bright metallic disc slices through the scaly hide like a knife through butter, and comes arcing back through the sky into Steve’s hand, covered in a black, sludge-like substance.

The beast’s heads shriek in outrage, and four of the ten turn toward him. Steve waits till they arch over the island above him, then sends the shield flying out again. This time it finishes the cut it began, fully severing the huge head from its snaking neck.

“Holy shit,” Tash breathes. “Did you know he could do that?”

Bucky doesn’t get a chance to answer. At that moment, the titanic head crashes down onto the island, sending out a shockwave that makes the ground buck and reel beneath his feet. He loses his balance and goes sprawling sideways. Tash grabs for him a fraction of a second too late, and he tumbles off the cliff into the raging sea below.

Steve flips backward and rolls away just in time to avoid being crushed by the severed head of the beast. He chokes and gags on the stench of the thing as he jumps to his feet, summoning his shield back to his hand, then looks up to assess the situation. The headless neck is thrashing wildly about, spewing black sludge into the air, which rains down around him, spattering over his face and chest.

“You are one stinky son of a bitch,” he mutters, preparing his shield for another attack.

He winds up to throw it, then freezes in place. His blood runs cold and he stands staring up at the neck. It is doing something. Splitting in half down the center. The two ends warp and twist, and seem to be solidifying, growing and swelling outward into bulb shapes. In a matter of seconds, they have bloomed into two fully-formed heads, identical to the one he cut off.

Hydra. Right. He should’ve paid more attention in school. The rest of the heads have already smashed or consumed the last of the golems, and all eleven are now focused on him.

“Any chance we could talk about this?” he shouts up to them.

Their maws open, revealing hundreds of rows of razorblade teeth, and come screaming down to toward him. He drops the shield and snaps into his wolf form, darting away like lightning into the cover of the woods.

The island quakes as the ravenous mouths of the hydra plunge deep into the bedrock, tearing away colossal chunks of earth and swallowing them whole. They’re not coming directly after him, having lost him under the cover of the trees, but the thing is going to take the entire island apart within minutes. He hopes the team has the jet warmed up.

“Winter!” Tash cries out, over the roaring of the hydra, as Bucky vanishes into the black water.

She can’t even jump in after him, since demons and deep water don’t exactly mix well. Cursing under her breath, she leans as far over the cliff as she can, straining to see where he has gone.

“What the fuck are you doing?” a voice says behind her.

She gives a visible start and whirls around. Bucky is standing there soaking wet, looking at her like she’s lost her mind.

“God damn it, Winter!” she snaps, giving him a shove. “Don’t sneak up on me! How the fuck did you get back up here?”

“I’m a vampire, Tash,” he says slowly, as if addressing a not particularly bright child. “I am very fast and I can fly.”

“Wow, I’m so glad you’re a dick again,” she says drily. “I was getting tired of polite, likeable Winter.”

“Where’s Steve?” he asks.

“He’s over there, being a complete idiot, exactly like I told him not to,” she says, pointing to the idiot in question, who is a couple of hundred meters to their left. “He just cut off the hydra’s head, which means there are eleven now.”

Bucky turns just in time to see wolf Steve dart into the woods, and the heads come barreling down toward the island.

“Looks like that’s the rendezvous signal,” Tash says. “Meet you at the jet.”

She blinks out and Bucky dissolves into black vapor, whirling away after her. She is waiting at the loading door when he reintegrates and steps aboard the jet. The door booms closed and Clint takes the thing up as everyone straps into their seats. Just as they rise above the treeline, a heavy impact shakes the entire hull, and the jet spins sideways.

“What hit us?” Steve calls out.

“One of the things threw a tree or something and took off a wing!” Clint shouts back, wrestling with the controls. “Hang on tight! We’re going down!”

Wanda’s red aura expands outward in a protective bubble as they hurtle in a shallow arc toward the quaking and crumbling island. Then suddenly, the spin stops and the jet levels out, just a few meters from crashing into the trees.

“Holy shit, how’d you do that?” Steve exclaims.

“I—I didn’t do anything,” Clint says, bewildered. “My instruments are dead. I don’t know what’s happening.”

They sit looking at each other in mute perplexity, as the jet floats down and sets itself gently on the ground, several meters from the ruined Hydra fortress.

“What the hell is that?” Sam asks, pointing out the cockpit windshield.

They all hop out of their seats and crowd around to see what he’s looking at. Off the southern point, the hydra has lifted its heads into the air again. They are all turned directly upward, bellowing at the cloudy sky like enraged animals.

Above its heads, a brilliant, white light bursts through the heavy clouds. The team members can’t imagine what this thing is, other than perhaps a small, descended sun. Whatever it is, the light it emits is so bright that the source can’t be perceived. It shines briefly on the hydra, the sea around it, and most of the island as it speeds downward, and plunges like an arrow into the black sea.

Too overwhelmed with curiosity to be concerned for the safety of the idea, the team members pile out of the jet and run as fast as they can back to the cliff’s edge. Deep in the tumultuous sea, enormous bursts of light can be seen, turning the water brilliant turquoise-green in flashes.

The Hydra’s heads all rear back at once, giving an earsplitting, earth-rending howl. The cry dies abruptly and the necks go slack. The lifeless heads plummet like meteors into the sea.

The team stands silent, staring at the ocean, listening to the crash of waves as they attempt to process what has just happened. Above them, the clouds are swiftly dispersing, revealing the clear, black, star-filled sky.

After a long moment, the thing that has apparently destroyed the hydra bursts up out of the dark water, and flies directly toward them. Its light is significantly diffused this time, however, and they can see, as it lands on the cliff, that it is a woman.

She has long, pale-blonde hair and is dressed in ornate armor of some silver-like metal, trimmed with gold. At her side, a sword is belted. Its hilt appears to be pearl, and glittering stones like diamonds are set in the gold scabbard.

The most interesting feature, of course, are her wings, which are spread out, giving her an almost twenty-foot wingspan. They are covered in pure, snow-white feathers, that shimmer with their own light as she steps toward them, holding a hand up, palm-outward in token of peace.

She stops a few feet in front of them and folds her wings behind her, looking them over with a stern expression on her noble face. Everyone stands there looking stupidly back at the woman, who they can now only assume is some kind of angel. Everyone but Clint, that is, who steps out from the group.

“Hey, Marvel!” he says affably. “How you been?”

“Hey Barton, I didn’t recognize you in that body!” she laughs, holding out her arms. “Get over here and hug me, you old sneak!”

Clint gives her the requested hug, then turns back to the group. “Guys, this is Carol—or Marvel, depending on the situation. She’s an old friend. Carol, this is the strike team. The wolf is Steve Rogers, Winter is the vamp, Wanda is the witch, and you know Sam.”

“I know _of_ him,” Carol says, grinning at Sam. “It’s good to finally meet you, Sam.”

“You too,” Sam says, stepping forward to shake her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, and let me just say, Clint has been doing you no justice at all.”

“I knew it. He’s such a traitor,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ll tell you the real stories some time. By the way, I can’t believe you married one of our kind and never brought him to visit, Barton.”

“Uh…yeah,” Clint says awkwardly. “They’re not exactly popular up there. We thought it was better to avoid the divine wrath, you know?”

“Actually, the big guy has softened up on that whole thing in past couple centuries. You should really come up and visit.” She looks over the bemused group again, and her eyes stop on Steve, who she gives a sly smile. “We’ve been hearing about you for a while, Rogers. Keep up the good work.”

Steve smiles bashfully and flushes his usual bright pink. “Thank you, ma’am, but I haven’t really been doing much of anything.”

“More than you think.”

“Excuse me,” Bucky cuts in, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Is someone going to explain who and what the fuck this woman is, and maybe how she killed an actual, literal hydra all by her fucking self just now?”

“Still too bright for you, Barnes?” she smirks. “Hang on, I’ll turn it down.”

As she says this, her wings fade and disappear, and her dazzling armor changes into an ordinary-looking white t-shirt and blue jeans. Bucky stops shielding his eyes and looks her suspiciously up and down.

“So you’re an angel, huh?” he says. “What are you doing down here?”

“Seraph,” Carol corrects. “And I’m down here because someone awakened a demon of the ancient world, which falls soundly into my jurisdiction. Not that you guys weren’t doing great, but I figured I’d better not let it kill you all, eat the island, and get started on devouring Scandinavia.”

This answer appears to palliate him, but he is still inclined to be cautious. “Aren’t you supposed to strike us all down, or something? We’re mostly evil creatures, aside from the bird men.”

Carol laughs outright. “You? You couldn’t even be evil when those men took your brain apart and turned you into a mindless killing machine, Barnes. Everyone here is on the books as one of the good ones. Including you.”

Bucky stands there looking stricken, as Sam and Clint laugh heartily and pat him on the back.

“Ma’am, if I may,” Steve says. “Why are you Carol or Marvel depending on the situation?”

“Oh, we all have battle names like that. Marvel, Wonder, Glory, Splendor…it’s a seraph thing. Carol is for casual, everyday use. Also, Tash, I can see you hiding behind the wolf,” she says, putting her hands on her hips. “Come out and say hello, at least.”

Tash becomes visible and steps out from behind Steve, then stands there with her arms crossed. “Hello.”

“Oh my god, you’re still mad at me!” Carol exclaims. “Baby, come on! How long are you gonna hold that against me it was forever ago!”

“You know why I’m still mad, Carol,” Tash retorts, tossing her red hair. “Don’t even try that indignant innocence routine, I invented that.”

“I said I was sorry, like, six-thousand times. Also, I just majorly saved all your asses, so you could at least pretend to be happy to see me.”

“I am not doing this with you in front of my friends, Carol,” Tash says, then she softens somewhat. “But…thank you for saving us from the hydra. That was very cool.”

“Yeah seriously, thank you so much for your help, ma’am,” Steve says. “What you did was…amazing.”

“You’re welcome and it totally was, right?” Carol grins. “I love throwing down with those old big-bads. There just aren’t a lot of opportunities, these days.”

“I don’t mean to presume on your generosity, but our jet was destroyed,” Steve says. “Is there any way you could help us get somewhere with civilization? It’s going to be sunrise soon, and Winter has to get under cover.”

“Oh, I know about your jet,” Carol says. “I caught you and set you down before I took care of the hydra. Where do you want to go?”

“Home,” Tash says. “Shield HQ.”

Carol arches a blonde eyebrow. “Done.”

All at once, with no warning or supernatural fuss of any kind, they find themselves standing on the roof of Shield headquarters, on the helipad from which they had departed some hours ago.

“I’ve got to report to Fury right away,” Tash says. “Carol, you should come. He’ll want to see you, anyway.”

“Got it,” Carol nods. “It was great meeting you all. We’ll chat more later, ok? Oh hey, Sam, before I forget. I ran into a friend of yours. He’s happy and he’s doing really well. He’s actually been teaching the cherubim to play Dungeons and Dragons, so go figure.”

“Thanks,” Sam nods, clearing his throat to conceal the sudden tremor of emotion in his voice. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

“No problem. There’s an empty character sheet for you, if you ever decide to come up and visit.”

As the team stands watching Carol and Tash walk away, Bucky turns to Steve. “What the fuck is that smell?”

“Oh, the hydra thing,” Steve says apologetically. “I cut off its head and that black stuff got all over me.”

“Wonderful,” Bucky grimaces. “You smell like a sewer full of rotting whale carcasses. Why are you standing so close to me?”

“We can all smell him,” Wanda says. “Trust me, it’s not any better over here.”

“Hey, be nice to your stinky-ass wolf boyfriend,” Sam says. “He dragged us all over there to save you, you know.”

“What the fuck do you mean boyfriend,” Bucky demands indignantly. “I don’t even like him.”

Steve’s blue eyes go big and sad. “You don’t like me?”

“Nice try, blood-bug,” Sam smirks. “I saw you kissing him after Wanda got the necromancer whammy off you.”

“Not even a little?” Steve persists.

“I can’t believe I missed that,” Wanda pouts. “Sam, take a picture next time.”

Bucky throws his hands up in exasperation. “It wasn’t a kiss! He was drowning in his own blood! I had to do something!”

“Oh yeah?” Clint rejoins. “You usually do CPR with that much tongue?”

“I fucking hate all of you,” Bucky grumbles, crossing his arms sullenly. “I wish I’d killed you while I was brainwashed.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re so evil and dark,” Steve laughs, as they walk across the roof to the entry doors. “That’s why an actual angel says you’re one of the good—oh no! I left my ball on the Quinjet!”

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

 

 

Bucky feels like shit. Maybe not a whole bag of shit this time, but a lot worse than average. He pushes himself out of bed and stumbles into the shower, stands there in a daze for a while, and gets out. He steps in front of the mirror to pull his wet hair back, and gives a start at the sight of the metal arm. He’d already gotten accustomed to the weight of the thing, and it processes sensation exactly like his flesh arm had, so he keeps forgetting he has it.

He remembers, now, when they cut off his arm to replace it with this one. The destruction of that mind stone thing has apparently lifted the haze off all his memory. Even things they’d put him under sleep spells for. He shudders and turns away from the mirror, pushing it out of his mind as he goes to dress.

God he’s missed his own fucking clothes. Anything but stiff combat trousers and all those belts and holsters. That shit weighs fifty fucking tons and makes you clank around like a can full of rocks. He did rather like the leather chest armor, though, and it is hanging in his closet, awaiting some suitable occasion to wear it again. Maybe a BDSM party or something.

He pulls on a black, cashmere v-neck t-shirt and his most beautifully worn-out pair of grey, skinny-ass jeans that fit him like a glove made of heaven. He likes his old black boots best, but he’s still irritable at having been made to wear combat boots for the past month and a half, so he slips on a pair of oxfords, just to be contrary.

It’s getting warm these nights, and he doesn’t feel like wearing a fucking jacket, so he doesn’t. No one can tell him what to wear. Or do. Or think or feel or say. Not ever again. Never. He lets go of the door frame when he hears the wood crack, and dashes away the tears that he is suddenly aware have been rolling down his cheeks.

They made him a slave. They hurt him and used him and took his mind away, and he’s still not sure how keen he is on having it back. Because it’s all back, now. Everything. He’s been the soldier and he’s been himself and he remembers both.

He picks up his sunglasses from the dresser. Black wayfarers with violet lenses, enchanted by the witch to help with his early-evening sight issues, and he’s probably never received a sweeter gift. His heart aches for that sad little Romani girl and her big, hollow eyes.

He saved her from a gang of Hitler youths who were beating her right in the street. No one was stopping them. Fuck you, Germany. But that’s old shit. It’s now and he’s here in his apartment, and his phone has vibrated with seven separate messages while he’s been dressing. He picks it up.

**Steve:** Buck, are you up yet?

**Steve:** Sorry I’m bothering you so early but I’m really excited about tonight

**Steve:** Rise and shine :)

**Steve:** I’m coming over there and throwing you out of bed.

**Steve:** You know I wouldn’t do that right? I was joking.

**Steve:** Yayyy your lights are on I know you’re up now.

**Steve:** Not in a weird way we live across the street and our apartments face each other so I can’t help seeing.

While he is reading these, his phone vibrates with an eighth message.

**Steve:** I’m outside just come down when you’re ready. :)

Stupid, sexy, emoji-using Steve and his stupid, early-evening cheerfulness. Bucky is in a growly mood and he likes it that way, and he knows Steve is going to ruin it with his big, stupid blue eyes and stupid, handsome face and stupid, sexy wolf smell. Fuck. He wants Steve so badly his fangs ache just thinking about him.

They should know better, since they can’t get through his wolf-hide anyway, but they’re just fangs and their comprehension of such things is limited. Thus, they ache over Steve like a morning hard-on, and Bucky’s mouth waters at the mere thought of his neck. Probably sticking out of the collar of one of those criminally tight, blue t-shirts he wears, like he doesn’t know exactly how his body looks and what it’s doing to people when he puts it on display like that.

Bucky smiles to himself. He still can’t fucking believe that wheezy matchstick of a kid turned into the sexy-werewolf-slash-tower-of-muscles-and-justice that is Steve. That reminds him. They need to have that talk. The ‘why the fuck didn’t you tell me you were the asthmatic little shit on the bridge who ruined my whole life’ talk. Ugh. Steve. What a fucking dick. Ruining people’s lives with his big, blue eyes since 1930.

It gradually dawns on him that he feels like shit because the thirst is gnawing at his insides like an angry badger with extra teeth. He hasn’t felt it like this since he was starving in the Shield basement. He also hasn’t had any blood since Steve gave him some the hydra night.

Those few ounces shouldn’t even have sustained him for an hour, let alone days, but he has since worked out that Steve’s blood is special. Aside from transferring some annoying wolf-like traits, it seems to cure poisoning, make him heal faster, make him stronger, and heighten his own vampiric abilities, even when taken in preposterously small quantities.

Not that he likes to admit it, but Steve’s blood has been something of a bombshell, actually. Like finding out about coffee after you’ve been drinking the creamer like a fucking idiot your whole life.

He wonders if he could talk Steve into giving him some more, then feels like an asshole for even thinking it. His (shudder) friend is not his personal drive-through. He’ll keep his bloodlust to himself and make do with humans like he always has.

When he walks out of his building, he sees Steve right away (thank you, Wanda) approaching from across the street with his stupid, sunny smile and requisite tight, blue t-shirt vacuum sealed around his spectacular torso (seriously thank you, Wanda).

“Hey, Buck!” Steve says, as he falls into step with him. “How you feeling?”

“Like I need a hundred cups of coffee,” Bucky answers grumpily. “Tash isn’t back at Heart of Darkness yet, though, so we’ll have to take our chances with whatever twenty-year-old hipster barista she has covering the place.”

“It’s funny isn’t it?” Steve says, still smiling.

“What?”

“Tash and Carol. Tash is a demon, Carol’s an angel. They’re from opposite ends of the supernatural spectrum, but they love each other anyway.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Bucky says distractedly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing. I’ve got the thirst bad. Really bad. I need to find someone soon.”

“Well, you always have me,” Steve says cheerfully.

“What do you mean?”

“My blood. I know it’s not the same as human blood, but I’m happy to give it to you, any time you want it.”

Bucky stares at him. “Why?”

“Why not?” Steve laughs. “You only need a couple ounces that I don’t even feel. I figure it’d be more convenient than spending half of every other night hunting down a human.”

Bucky cannot believe he is hearing this casual offer of the very thing he’d just been calling himself an asshole for wanting. “You…you want to give me your blood? Like…regularly?”

“Sure. It costs me literally nothing, Buck. Plus I kind of owe you, you know?”

Bucky shakes his head. “You don’t owe me anything, Steve.”

“Well,” Steve shrugs. “Except my life.”

“What’s going on? Why are we turning around?”

“I’m gonna give you some blood. We shouldn’t do it in public, so I figured we could go back to your place for a minute.”

“Oh.”

“Is that ok?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky finds himself gripped by a sudden fit of nervousness, as he leads his wolf friend back up the stairs to his apartment. He knows Steve has been here before, but it feels different now that he’s brought him into it intentionally, rather than discovered him sleeping on the floor. The lavish size of the place almost embarrasses him, and he hopes Steve doesn’t think he’s some kind of bourgeois jerkoff.

Steve casts his eyes about as they walk in. “You don’t have a lot of furniture.”

“No. I don’t want a bunch of things. I like the things I like, and that’s what I have.”

“You have a ton of clothes, though.”

“I like them all. You want, um…some water?” Bucky says awkwardly, realizing that’s the only thing he has in the house, aside from hard liquor and a few ancient bottles of wine.

“Nah, I’m good,” Steve smiles, seating himself on the white leather sofa.

Bucky comes over and sits a foot or two away, chafing his hands together anxiously. Steve keeps smiling and looking at him with those big, bright-blue eyes, and all Bucky can see is that little kid. Looking at him like he’s some kind of angel.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” he blurts out. “Why didn’t you tell me about the river and how you knew it was me?”

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve says, looking down at the floor. “I should’ve told you, but I saw that you didn’t remember, and I didn’t want you to feel some kind of…obligation to me because of it. I thought I’d just try to be your friend, and if you wanted to be mine, too, it’d be better that way. Because you liked me for me, and not because you pitied me or anything.”

Bucky blinks at him in disbelief. “Pitied you? You thought I would have pitied you? For what? Being a literally perfect man who everyone loves?”

Steve’s face flushes pink and he keeps his eyes on the floor. “Buck, the way you see me…it isn’t the way I see myself. To me, I’m still the asthmatic weakling who got his ass kicked at school twice a week and got rejected by the Army five times. This body isn’t me. It’s all the wolf.”

It suddenly occurs to Bucky how very few years Steve has lived in his body (and the world in general) compared to himself. He’s so young. A hundred years old, and almost seventy of them underground. Under all that wolf, Steve is still the skinny little boy who couldn’t swim. But that kid was born a hero, not made into one.

“Steve, you told me yourself the wolf just amplifies everything about you. So this is you. It’s just your body catching up with who you already were inside. You were already a hero.”

“No, I—I was always myself, but I wasn’t any kind of hero until they made me one with all of this.”

“You were to me.”

Steve frowns up at him. “What?”

“You were a hero to me. I pulled you out of that river, but you were the one who saved me. You were…you were the reason I stopped killing and started hunting the way I do. You gave me back my soul. Made me want to be better than I was. You changed my whole life, Steve.”

“But why…why didn’t you remember me?”

“I didn’t forget you,” Bucky laughs. “I just didn’t recognize you. Those are different things. That wheezy kid who lived with his mom in that shitty apartment on fifth…I thought about him every day.”

“You did?”

“I did.” Bucky crosses his arms and looks thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “Come to think of it, he’s probably the reason I always go for young blondes. Huh. I wonder why I didn’t put that together till now.”

“So, you were already a vampire then? When you saved me?”

“Yep. For a long time.”

“How long? I just realized I don’t even know how old you are.”

“Uh…haha. I’m old. Really old.”

“Aw, come on,” Steve wheedles. “You have to tell me, now. I’ll die of curiosity.”

“Ok, but promise you won’t be weirded out, ok?”

“I promise.”

“I don’t know my exact birth year, but it was somewhere around…1610.”

“Jesus Christ, Buck!” Steve exclaims. “Holy shit, I thought…I mean, first of all, I thought you were American. But there was no America back then, so—wait, where are you from? And when did you become a vampire?”

“I was born in Ireland. The surname my family had used since the poll tax was established was O’Bearain. My father changed it to Barnes when we emigrated to Dorset, in England. The vampire thing happened when I was twenty-six or twenty-seven.”

“How did it happen?”

“Well, my parents were long dead and I was making my way as a sort of…paid companion to a young gentleman of means—”

“Is that exactly what it sounds like?”

“Not always, but it can be. It was pretty common practice back then, to have a paid friend for one’s gentleman son. Mine was something they called a dissipated youth, and his noble parents were willing to keep me fed and housed and well-dressed in exchange for my discretion, and keeping him out of whorehouses and gambling debt till he could be properly married off.

It also happened that I was pretty and he wanted to have sex with me, so that was part of our arrangement. We obviously kept that part to ourselves, though. Maybe not a noble profession, but it was a lot better than starving on the streets or getting sent to die in the colonies.”

“And he made you a vampire?”

“No, no. Not him. There was this old duke, who was famous for these lavish parties that lasted an entire week, and no ladies were invited. He did not have a good reputation with the moral set, but he was obscenely wealthy and very close to the throne, so he was invited everywhere. He never went, of course, but everyone attended his gatherings.

That year, my little lordling was invited, so I went with him. I was wandering around the gardens one night, extremely drunk, when I ran smack into the old duke himself. Only he didn’t look all that old, to me. He was black-haired and fair-skinned and he couldn’t have been more than forty, I thought.

He started talking to me, which I couldn’t comprehend, since I was literally no one, brought to his house by someone who was only barely a gentleman. But he kept at it. Chatting on about confusing philosophical things while I tried not to doze off.

Then he said I must be very tired, and invited me to rest in his chamber. I had sobered up some by that point and I wasn’t stupid, so I went.”

“You thought that was the _not_ stupid thing to do?”

“It was a different world, Steve. If I had pissed off a duke, I could’ve wound up dead or on a prison ship, and no one would have given the tiniest shit about it. Anyway, we had sex and then he got weird and weepy and he kept touching my face. He told me I was too beautiful to be wasted on a short, pathetic mortal life.

I was starting to get scared, so I tried to make a joke of it. I asked him if he was going to kill me, then, to preserve me this way forever. He said yes, and then he bit me. I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up in a cell in the dungeon.

He told my lordling that I’d been found by a servant and some corroborating witnesses, drowned in the garden pond, and showed him my cold body. Then he taught me about what he’d made me into and I was his companion for a long time.”

“Weren’t you angry at him?”

“Not really. Life was hell back then. People lived in hardship and want, and died young if they were lucky. I was spared the same fate as my parents, so as far as I was concerned, I had it pretty good. Eventually, I got bored of the duke and went to travel around Europe. In the 1850s, I decided to find out what all the fuss was about the new world.

The minute I set foot in America, I fell in love, and I made it my home. Got rid of my accent over the years, hired lawyers and accountants, bought property…the whole deal. I’m more American than most Americans, really. I’ve been here a lot longer.”

“So, you were with the lord and the duke. You’re…are you…I mean—”

“You mean am I homosexual? No. I have sex with men and women. A lot of them. Like, I can’t even count anymore. I think I stopped trying back in the 1700s.”

Steve looks away uncomfortably. “Oh.”

“Steve, I’m not a nice person,” Bucky says. “I keep telling you.”

“What does having a lot of sex have to do with you being a nice person or not?”

“I don’t know. You certainly seem to think there’s something wrong with it.”

“No, there’s nothing wrong with it. What’s wrong is that you’re saying it like you’re trying to upset me. Why would you want to do that?”

“I’m not trying to upset you. I just don’t want you to have some delusion that I’m any better than I am.”

“I think you’re the one with the delusion, Buck. You’re a predator who doesn’t kill people. You saved my life, you keep your neighborhood safe from criminals, and you gave me my ball when I was sad. Also, a literal angel told you you’re one of the good ones. You can’t keep insisting you’re not and expect me to take you seriously.”

“I know,” Bucky sighs. “I know, Steve. You’re just so young and pure. It’s hard not to feel like an ugly old demon next to you.”

“You’re not. You’re beautiful. You’re…amazing, and I love everything about you.”

Bucky’s heart nearly stops. “You…what?”

“I, uh—nothing,” Steve says, flushing crimson. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, as Steve moves to get up from the sofa.

“Being polite and going away after I made an ass of myself?”

Bucky grabs hold of his blue t-shirt with both hands. “Steve, kiss me. Kiss me right the fuck now.”

Steve hesitates, looking into his eyes, then their mouths are pressed together wildly, tongues rolling over one another, groping and caressing each other’s bodies with an almost fevered desperation. Steve’s scent and heat and the taste of his mouth make Bucky’s head spin. When Steve pulls back, his fangs are visible through his parted lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says breathlessly. “I can be a little…intense.”

“I like it,” Bucky purrs. “Don’t stop.”

Steve rakes his fiery-gold eyes over his body, then looks away. “I have to. If I don’t, I—I won’t be able to control myself.”

“Then don’t control yourself.”

“It’s not that simple, Buck.”

“It is,” Bucky says, trying to pull him back down. “I want you, Steve. Take me. Fuck me.”

“It’s not, though,” Steve says, catching his hands and holding them. “Not for us. I know what the other kinds think of wolves, but we don’t just fuck like animals. We choose a mate, and that’s it. We mate for life.”

“And you don’t…want to do that with me,” Bucky says slowly. “You don’t want me to be your…your mate. For life.”

“No, I do! That’s the problem. I want you and only you. But I can’t ask you to choose me that way, just because it’s how I work. That wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“If I don’t work that way, you’ll…what? You’ll choose someone else?”

“No. My choice was made when I was twelve years old, Buck. I’ve been in love with you my whole life. If it’s not you, then…it’s no one.”

Bucky’s heart pounds and his stomach turns queasily, as if he’s in the middle of the steepest drop on the old Coney Island Cyclone. He looks up into those big, blue eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Then it’s me,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it. “Because I’m in love with you, too. And now that I’ve got you, I’m not letting you go. So…I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve grins. “Is that how it is?”

“That’s how it is. Anyway, you brought this on yourself. I hope you’re happy with your actions and choices.”

“I am happy,” Steve says, laying his hand on Bucky’s cheek. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

“Just wait till we have sex, then. You’re gonna lose your mind.”

“Uh, about that. I have to warn you. I might get kind of…aggressive. And territorial.”

“Steve, I already told you I want you,” Bucky smirks. “You don’t have to keep sweet-talking me.”

Steve smiles softly down at him, then slashes his wrist with his fangs and pushes it into Bucky’s mouth. He doesn’t gag or resist at all this time. He takes hold of Steve’s arm and sucks the hot, aromatic blood from his veins, taking it in deep, ravenous swallows. After a moment, Steve yanks his wrist away.

“You can’t take too much, Buck,” he pants. “It could hurt you.”

Bucky makes a sound somewhat akin to an acknowledgement, as he runs his tongue over the tips of his fangs. Steve’s blood is coursing through his body, warming his cold flesh and making him tingle all over.

He is still deeply engrossed in this sensation when he feels Steve lifting him from the sofa. He carries him to his bedroom and tosses him onto his bed, where he lies watching Steve strip out of his blue shirt and jeans. His fangs and cock ache at the sight of Steve’s beautiful, naked body. Like an Apollo carved in bronze.

Then the amber-gold eyes flash, and the wolf is on him, tearing off his clothing, licking and biting and sucking bruises into his white skin. For the first time, he begins to perceive the barely restrained ferocity of the werewolf, lurking inside sweet, sunny, cheerful Steve. It takes his breath away.

Steve flips him over and pulls him up by his hips, spreading his knees wide apart. There is a breathless pause, then a hot, wet tongue is lapping and circling the sensitive rim of his asshole. Slipping inside and drawing away, driving him nearly out of his mind with desire.

“Fuck me,” Bucky half-groans, rocking his hips plaintively. “Fuck me now, I want you.”

He is pushed roughly onto his stomach and Steve’s solid weight comes down on top of him. He arches his back and gives a hoarse moan as the thick, hot shaft of Steve’s cock presses through the tight ring of muscle.

Steve gives a low growl in his throat and bites into the back of his neck, penetrating him ruthlessly, till his pelvis is pressed flush against his ass. Bucky’s mind reels, overloaded with the burning ache deep inside, as he is held down and spitted on Steve’s cock.

His body acclimates as Steve begins to thrust, slowly at first, then with increasing force and speed. The pain and pleasure are no longer distinguishable, running together like liquid paint colors, bright and beautiful and swirling through his head.

He plants his hands against the headboard to steady himself as Steve slides that big, gorgeous dick in and out of his taut hole. Thrumming it over his prostate till his cock is throbbing, tormented by the bit of friction it gets with each thrust, leaking so hard it feels like he pissed himself. He gasps as Steve grabs a handful of his hair and yanks his head back.

“Come for me, bitch,” Steve snarls, with his hot mouth pressed to Bucky’s ear. “Come on my cock.”

He sinks his teeth into his neck again and Bucky comes so hard his vision goes black. His body shudders and quakes beneath Steve’s, as his cock convulses, spurting into the tight space between his stomach and the mattress.

Still holding him by his hair, Steve draws back and pounds him like a jackhammer, hips slamming into his ass over and over, as Bucky trembles helplessly under the onslaught. He feels Steve’s cock swell suddenly and heat up like a brand. Steve drives it in to the hilt and holds it, giving a strangled cry as it spews molten-hot fluid into Bucky’s insides.

Bucky lies there dazed and euphoric, staring off into space. He is vaguely aware of Steve carefully pulling out and pressing gentle kisses to his bruised neck. He hears him murmuring something about…something. He doesn’t give a fuck what it is. Steve’s voice sounds so good he wants to wrap himself up in it and go to sleep.

Four-hundred-odd years of existence, and he’s never been fucked like that. Fucked by a fucking werewolf. Jesus Christ, this is gonna be just like the blood. He’ll never be able to enjoy having sex with anyone else again. He may as well take tepid showers and drink chamomile tea.

This idea strikes him as extremely funny, and he laughs croakily as Steve rolls him over and gazes into his face. His big, stupid, bright-blue eyes look worried for some reason, which makes Bucky laugh harder.

“You’re not laughing cause it was bad, are you?” Steve asks earnestly. “I’ve never done it before, so I’m sorry if I was kind of…clumsy. I’ll get better at it, I promise.”

“That was—your first fucking time?” Bucky gasps, nearly in tears of laughter.

“Yes,” Steve frowns. “You’re laughing a lot. Is that supposed to happen?”

Bucky gets his mirth under control, then sighs and drags his palm over that stupid, blonde hair, pushing it down onto Steve’s sweat-slick forehead. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had, you dumb wolf. I’m laughing because you broke my brain. I’m ruined forever.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “Well…good, then. Me too. I mean, it was the only sex I’ve ever had, but I’d say it was a promising indicator of how it’ll go in the future.”

“You do get wolfy, don’t you,” Bucky says, rubbing a sore spot on his neck. “You bit me really hard. And I’m pretty sure you called me bitch.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve winces. “I warned you how I might be.”

“Steve, stop apologizing. I liked everything you did. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were a virgin, though.”

Steve cocks his head curiously to one side, in that absurdly canine manner. “I thought you understood. I told you I’ve never loved anyone but you.”

“Yeah, you did, but I’ve never loved anyone either, and I’ve fucked hundreds of people.”

An adoring smile spreads across Steve’s stupid, handsome face. “You’ve never loved anyone else?”

“Just my knives and the open road, babe,” Bucky says, crossing his arms behind his head.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Is that so.”

“Yep. If you’re gonna hang around with me, you better not try to tie me down. I’m like the—wait. Actually, do try to tie me down. That would be hot.”

“What’s that sound?” Steve asks, glancing about.

“My phone. Where are my clothes?”

“I tore them off you in a fit of passion, Buck. They could be anywhere.”

“I see my pants,” Bucky says, craning his neck. “They’re way over there, though.”

“I’ll get them.”

“No, hang on. I want to try this.”

He holds out his hand and concentrates. After a second or two, a black-bladed combat knife materializes in it.

“God damn it,” he grumbles, dropping the knife on the bed.

He tries again. After a few more seconds, another identical knife appears in his hand.

“What the fuck? I could do this just fine with the ball the other day.”

“Where are these knives even coming from?” Steve asks, as Bucky sets down a third knife with the others.

“What am I, a physicist? I have no idea.”

“Maybe you should try using your other hand.”

“Why would that make any difference, Steve? It’s the same source for the conjuration, which is me.”

“I don’t know, scientific method. Eliminate it as a possibility, so we know it’s not that.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and holds out his metal hand. The grey jeans immediately rise off the floor and sail across the room into it.

“This doesn’t mean you were right, so you can wipe that smug look off your face,” he says, as he digs his phone out of his pocket. “It’s Tash. She wants to know where we are.”

“Shit, it’s eight-thirty,” Steve says. “We’re already late.”

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

 

 

Upon sober reflection, Bucky realizes, of course, that this is exactly what he should have expected. The plain fact is, he had allowed himself to be led into this situation, as blissful and unsuspecting as the lamb to the slaughter, without the vaguest thought as to what fate might have in store for him. The fault rests squarely upon himself.

Like a gentleman, he should admit his error, vowing to learn from it and to do better in the future, while maintaining his equanimity in the face of this adversity. But the name of this adversity is Steve. And gentlemen have rarely been asked to maintain their equanimity in the face of an adversity like Steve.

The first clue had come when they got into their cab, and Steve had cheerfully announced, “Hi, I’m Steve. This is my boyfriend. We’re in love.”

The operator of said taxicab had wisely pretended not to understand English.

“Boyfriend?” Bucky had asked, understandably disconcerted. “Is that…the word we’re using?”

“Yep,” Steve had responded blithely. “Oh, unless you’d rather use mate. Which is more accurate.”

Soundly defeated by this master stroke, Bucky had retired from the field to regroup and assay the devastation.

Fine. Boyfriend. He can deal with that. It only makes them sound like a pair of sixteen-year-old girls. Or—boys. Whatever. Why the fuck would Steve tell the cabbie about it one way or another?

Before this train of thought could pull into the station of apprehension, it had been derailed by Steve wrapping a large, muscular arm about him and pressing warm lips to his cold cheek. His intoxicating scent had washed over Bucky like a breath from heaven, and sent him into a state of transcendence divorced from rational forethought.

During the lengthy elevator ride to the top of the grand and glittering Stark Tower, Bucky’s mind had partly returned from its holiday. He recalled then, that he should ask Steve to just be chill about the whole boyfriend thing and not make a big deal out of it.

He had opened his mouth to do so, but before the first word escaped his lips, Steve had pushed him roughly against the wall and was kissing him in such a way that he briefly forgot what century it was, and by what enchantment this strange glass box was empowered to move directly upward, in defiance of gravity.

Bucky had not quite recovered from this latest assault on his ability to reason, when he found himself entering the revoltingly stylish Stark Tower Lounge, with his hand firmly ensconced in the grasp of his werewolf…ugh…. _boyfriend_. Fortunately, he was able to disengage the appendage and secure it in his pocket before anyone observed them.

They had managed to arrive only ninety minutes after the appointed time, which Bucky didn’t even consider to be technically late, but which Steve apparently believed to be a near-inexcusable social slight, for which he must make thorough and sincere apology to their hostess, who he had immediately sought out.

After listening to his apology, the lovely half-demoness had arched an amused eyebrow. “Are you guys late because you were fucking?”

“No!” Bucky had exclaimed.

“Yep,” Steve had chirped, and hooked an arm about the beset vampire’s waist. “He’s my boyfriend now. We’re in love.”

At this point, their hostess had turned and called out across the crowded room, “Hey, Barton! You owe me twenty bucks!”

It is thus that Bucky finds himself standing in a posh cocktail lounge, full of acquaintances and strangers, reflecting upon the merits of foresight and prudence, and the importance of maintaining one’s composure when confronted with an adversity named Steve. Stupid, blonde, blue-eyed Steve, whose enthusiastic adoration of his vampire companion apparently knows no bounds, either spiritual or social.

“Jesus Christ, Steve” Bucky mutters, placing his forehead in his hand, in an attitude of gentlemanly resignation.

“What’d you say, Buck?” Steve asks, his voice at full speaking volume. “I didn’t hear you.”

“God damn it, there are a ton of people here,” Bucky hisses. “Stop using my real name.”

“Shit, sorry. I forgot cause I was excited to see everyone. I meant, what’d you say Winter? I didn’t hear you.”

“He was just taking the lord’s name in vain,” Carol says archly, as she comes over to join the three friends. “You guys know that was a joke, though, right? I don’t really care about that stuff.”

Only Steve looks surprised. “You don’t?”

“Nah. That’d be like a homicide detective handing out tickets for jaywalking. If it’s not killing anyone or devouring entire cities, it’s not really my problem.”

“Hey, since we’re on the topic,” Steve says. “Can I ask you a kind of personal question?”

“I’m not saying I’ll answer, but ask away,” Carol grins.

“Well, you’re an angel and Tash is a demon. How is that…allowed?”

“Tash is only half demon, which means she has a soul. So, as far as the light is concerned, she’s human.”

“But, is _that_ even allowed? An angel having a relationship with a human?”

“Not in the old days, but that was more for the safety of the human than anything. Now that your kind are more educated and less easy to accidentally drive to madness with a glimpse of divine glory, we’ve eased up on the rules for interaction. The rules for who’s on what side aren’t nearly as black-white, good-evil as people like to think, either. But that’s a lot of technical stuff I won’t get into now.”

“Is that why Winter and I are predators, but we wound up on the good list anyway?”

“Sort of. It has more to do with individual character than who eats who. The lists can always change, though, so no murder sprees. Well. No unjustified murder sprees.”

“Alright, I’m dragging Carol away before she sucks you into a debate on moral relativism,” Tash says, taking her lady’s arm. “You guys go mingle and have fun. We’ll catch up in a little while.”

“Ok, see you later, Tash. Carol,” Steve says cheerfully. He looks at Bucky, who is glowering into the middle-distance. “Hey, you ok?”

“Hm? Yeah,” Bucky says. “It’s just…everything I was taught about good and evil came from my very Catholic parents, an ancient Romanian warlord vampire, and a psychotic Hydra fanatic. That’s a bizarre thing to come to grips with at a cocktail party.”

“Well, it’s a cocktail party full of supernatural creatures in a sorcerer’s tower, so I don’t know. Nothing seems too bizarre to me.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Steve says, taking his hand and squeezing it. “Oh, you know what we should do?”

“Yes. Ditch this party, go home and fuck all night.”

“Well, I was going to say we should go find Sam and Clint, but I like that idea, too. Wait, Tash will be sad if we leave early, though. She said she had a surprise for everyone. We’ve got to stay.”

“Fine, but I’ll probably be too tired to have sex after the party.”

Steve raises an eyebrow in challenge. “I bet you won’t.”

“I bet I will,” Bucky ripostes. “I’ll probably doze off in the cab.”

“I won’t let you, and you know why?”

“Why’s that, Steve?”

Steve leans close to whisper into his ear. “Because I am going to fuck you so hard you won’t remember either of your names, and I want you wide awake for that.”

Bucky stares at him as he leans away again, with that stupid, sunny, smile all over his stupid, handsome face. What the fuck kind of monster is this man? How can he look so innocent and sweet after that shit he just said? And now Bucky’s dick is half-hard and chafing in his underwear, so he has to deal with that, too.

Stupid, sexy Steve and his stupid not taking him home to fuck him right now. He grumbles about this in Russian as Steve pulls him by his hand toward the bar. Wonderful, the bird men. Looking smug and chipper, as usual.

“Sup, Old Yeller,” Sam grins. “How’s it going, Dorkula?”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “It’s going fine, weregoose.”

“Hey, guys, I’m glad you made it,” Clint says, shaking Steve’s hand, then Bucky’s. “So, you two are a thing now, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve beams like a thousand-watt bulb. “He’s my boyfriend. We’re in love.”

“Ain’t that sweet,” Sam laughs. “Bloodsucker’s got himself a werewolf boyfriend.”

“Well technically, ‘mate’ is more accurate,” Steve explains, while Bucky quietly attempts to die of embarrassment. “People don’t usually use that term, though, so boyfriend is easier.”

“Werewolves mate for life, though, right?” Clint asks mischievously. “So…wouldn’t husband actually be closer?”

“No,” Bucky interjects. “Absolutely not. Don’t give him ideas, I’m begging you. He’s already telling everyone we see that I’m his boyfriend. He told the fucking cab driver.”

“Well, you are, Buck,” Steve says. “Why wouldn’t I want everyone to know?”

“Ooh, Wolfie’s gettin’ territorial,” Sam says, clucking his tongue. “You gonna let him piss a circle around you like that, Winter?”

Bucky makes a face. “You’re not going to do that, are you?”

“Of course not,” Steve says indignantly. “My scent is already all over you, why would I need to piss a circle around you too?”

“Wait, your—why is your scent all over me?”

“We had sex. Now any werewolf who gets within a block of you will know you’re mine, and won’t bother you.”

Bucky crosses his arms. “Yours?”

“No, not—ok, I know that sounded bad, but I didn’t mean it like that. My kind are extremely territorial, so we’re very careful about respecting each other’s boundaries. Leaving our scent on our mates is a polite way of letting others know not to approach, without getting all hackles-up and growly about it. I’ve got your scent all over me, too.”

“Awww,” Sam says, looking back and forth between them. “That is so adorable and disgusting.”

“You guys can’t smell it, can you?” Bucky asks apprehensively. “Do I stink like wolf now?”

“Only wolves can smell those scent signals, Winter,” Clint laughs. “Don’t worry, you still smell like death and hipster to us.”

“Good,” Bucky glowers.

“Oh, and vamps can smell some of them,” Sam adds. “So, you might stink like wolf to other vampires.”

“Fuck me, I knew it,” Bucky groans. “I’m going to be ostracized.”

“Do you even hang out with any other vampires?” Steve asks.

“Well…no. But if I wanted to, I couldn’t now.”

“Do you want to?”

“That is beside the point, Steve. I’m trying to be mad about being tainted with wolf-stink, could you please not ruin it with your logic?”

“Oops. Sorry, Buck. Oh, that reminds me, why did Tash say you owe her twenty bucks, Clint?”

“She said she’d bet me you two would be together within three days. I thought you were a lot more stubborn than that, so I took the bet.”

“He didn’t count on how horny you were for each other,” Sam says. “Rookie mistake.”

“Hey, I’m not a biological organism,” Clint contends. “I have a hard time understanding those kinds of drives.”

“I’ll give you a hard time,” Sam says, pulling him in for a kiss.

Steve tilts his head curiously. “You two don’t have sex?”

“No, we do,” Clint says. “I just—”

“A lot of sex,” Sam interrupts. “I’m impressively virile.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “As I was saying. You bio-organisms need sex for the species to survive. I don’t have that native reproductive instinct. We have sex, but it’s purely for mutual enjoyment and emotional connection.”

“Wow, babe,” Sam smirks. “That was the gayest sentence I have ever heard.”

“But, Bucky and I can’t reproduce together, either,” Steve frowns. “I mean…he’s dead and I’m gay, so we can’t reproduce at all, I guess. Why do we still have biological sex drives?”

“Evolution, man,” Sam shrugs. “Millions of years of it. Our genes don’t know a dude from a lady. They just know we’re putting our dicks somewhere and spreading our genetic material.”

“Ok, this conversation is officially too gross for me,” Bucky says. “I’m gonna go find Wanda and ask her to wipe the last ten minutes from my memory.”

“Can she do that?” Steve calls after him.

“I guess I’ll find out,” Bucky calls back, over his shoulder.

“Hey, we’re really happy for you,” Sam says, once he is out of earshot. “You two are good together.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Clint nods. “You guys deserve to be happy. We’re glad you found each other.”

“Thanks, guys,” Steve smiles. “That means a lot to me. I better not let Winter wander around on his own, though. There are a lot of Shield agents here who might be startled.”

“Yeah, yeah, go guard your sexy vamp boyfriend,” Sam laughs. “Later, Steve.”

Steve finds Bucky on the large patio overlooking the city, standing with Pepper, who is wearing a crimson evening gown and again, no shoes. He wonders if that’s a demon thing, and whether it would be impolite to ask.

He also finds it amusing that an elder chaos demon would choose to manifest as a pretty, sight-framed woman who stands a good five inches below the vampire to whom she is speaking, and could certainly obliterate with a flick of her little finger.

“Hi, Steve,” she says, embracing him warmly. “I’m so glad you two could make it. Are you enjoying the party?”

“Very much, ma’am,” Steve says. “It was so kind of you and Mr. Stark to invite us all here.”

“Oh, we love having parties. You’re really doing me a favor, anyway. Tony’s sorcerer friends and business associates are so boring. It’s great to have all these young people here livening things up.”

“Except Winter,” Steve grins. “He’s old. Like, really old.”

“He’s a baby to me,” Pepper says, smiling at Bucky. “But I’m eternal, so basically everyone is.”

“Mr. Stark, he’s human?”

“That’s right.”

“But…if he’s Tash’s dad, and she’s five-hundred years old—”

“Oh, of course,” she laughs. “You’re curious because humans don’t tend to live that long. Well, the way I met Tony has a lot to do with it. He was a young sorcerer looking to increase his power, and somehow, he got a hold of a ritual to summon me. Normally, I’d have incinerated a human for the audacity, but he was just so cute I couldn’t help but let him live and see what he had to say for himself.

Anyway, we got to know each other and eventually, he pledged his soul to me. In exchange, I granted him a greatly increased life span, fantastic riches, and command of the black arts. It was a no-brainer for me, because I was already totally crazy about him. Then we got married and Tash came along, and the rest is history.”

“Literal history,” Bucky says. “She’s had a hand in pretty much every major war.”

“We all have hobbies,” Pepper shrugs. “Besides, I don’t cause wars, I just…tip the balance toward chaos when things are stagnating. That’s what I was doing in Berlin in 1942, when I ran into you.”

Steve frowns. “What were you doing in Berlin in 1942, Winter?”

“I was killing Nazis,” Bucky says. “I couldn’t fight in the war, for obvious reasons, but I spoke German like a native and I could use my thrall to get into any place I wanted to, so I went to Berlin. I killed an S.S. captain, took his uniform, and started hanging around the nightclubs where Nazi officers hung out.”

“Der Blaue Engel,” Pepper says wistfully. “That’s the nightclub where I saw him. This absolutely beautiful vampire boy in a black and silver uniform, just steeped in blood and death. I’d have made him an offer then and there, but his soul was not his to trade. C’est la vie.”

“Not his, ma’am?” Steve asks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it already belonged to someone else. I can give a human almost any earthly thing they want in exchange for a soul, but there are rules. I can’t take one that has been freely given. Even if the original owner doesn’t know they’ve given it.”

“Who…who did it belong to? The vampire who made him?”

“Not at all,” she laughs. “There’s no soul involved in the little blood exchange that makes a human a vampire, which is only a tiny bit less human. No, his soul was given as a gift, with no expectation of return. He was totally lost to me. But he was feeding me all kinds of delicious chaos, killing these Nazis right in the heart of Berlin, so I decided to do him a favor in return.”

“What kind of favor?”

“I warned him that there was a large cell of fanatics in Berlin, and if he kept up what he was doing, they’d get wise to him and hunt him down. I told him to get out while he could and try Switzerland or England. I found out later that he hadn’t listened.”

“They didn’t catch me until the war was basically over anyway,” Bucky says. “Then a bunch of them ambushed me and poisoned me. I assumed they were going to kill me, but…they didn’t.”

“But they did catch you,” Steve says. “Why didn’t you listen?”

“Probably because he’d just bought a bunch of rounds for three S.S. officers, then taken each of them to the alley and drained them, one after another,” Pepper answers. “He was as drunk as I’ve ever seen a man, vampire or otherwise, and he was going on and on about this blonde boy who tried to drown and ruined his life.”

“Yeah, this is him,” Bucky says, pointing to Steve. “He’s the blonde who ruined my life. You probably knew that already.”

“I did,” Pepper smiles. “I’m glad you finally found him, Steve. Take good care of his soul. It’s a rare and valuable one.”

“I—me?” Steve stammers. “But you said he—you said it already…belonged to someone.”

“He is just darling, Winter,” she laughs, turning to Bucky. “But he isn’t very bright, is he.”

“Not excessively, no,” Bucky says drily.

“I have to go and check on Tony now. You two have a lovely time, alright? Oh, and stay close. Tash has an announcement to make, here in a few minutes.”

“Do you think her and Carol are getting married?” Steve asks Bucky, as Pepper glides away into the lounge. “That would be so exciting.”

Bucky squints at him. “What? Why would that be exciting?”

“Because true love, Buck. Don’t you want everyone to be as happy as we are?”

“We’re not married, Steve.”

“Not legally. Do you think we should?”

“Should what?”

“Get married.”

Bucky scowls. “No. No talking about marriage. I’m seriously gonna have a panic attack.”

“Sorry,” Steve says defensively. “I was just trying to gauge where you stood on the topic. I know now, and I won’t bring it up anymore.”

“Steve, you know my soul belongs to you, right? We don’t need vows and rings to remind us that we are…this. Whatever we are. Together.”

“I know,” Steve half pouts. “But I like vows and rings. They’re romantic.”

“Fuck me,” Bucky pants, clasping the railing to steady himself. “I can’t—I can’t breathe.”

“This is kind of an extreme reaction to my bringing up the concept of marriage, Buck. You said you loved me and wanted to be my mate.”

“I do love you! I love you so much I feel like…like my chest is gonna cave in!”

Bucky wishes with every fiber of his being that he could just shut the fuck up, but now that the words have begun pouring out, he is powerless to stop them.

“You know why you bringing up marriage makes me panic? Because I’m fucking terrified. What if you die, Steve? How do vows and rings help me then? The first time I met you, you almost drowned and then almost died of an asthma attack. How do—how do I know I’m not going to lose you, no matter what I do?”

Bucky is suddenly aware of the tears rolling down his cheeks, and dashes them angrily away, still struggling to catch his ragged breath.

“I’ve got you, Buck. Come here,” Steve says, pulling him into his arms. “I’ll breathe with you.”

He holds Bucky firmly against his chest and begins to take slow, deep breaths. Bucky’s body tenses up to resist, but he finds himself overwhelmed by the echo of that night all those years ago, when he held that terrified child in his arms this same way.

That child is a man, now. A man who looks at a monster, and still sees an angel. A man who knows the worst things about him, and loves him in spite of it all.

He submits to the embrace, letting his weight rest against Steve’s body. Feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, and breathing in his comforting scent. For a brief moment, he sees the future stretching out endlessly before him. There is no step of that path he would choose to walk without this man by his side.

“I’ll do it,” he says softly.

“You’ll do what?” Steve asks.

“Anything you want. We’ll have vows and rings…all of it, if it’ll make you happy. Just be aware that my lawyers are going to insist on getting involved. There’s quite a bit of property to deal with.”

“We can talk about it some other time, Buck,” Steve says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I know I’m pushing you way too fast. I get excited and I get ahead of myself. I really am happy just being with you.”

“I hope so, because we’ve only officially been together for like, five hours.”

“Really?” Steve laughs. “It feels like longer.”

“It does,” Bucky sighs, wrapping his arms more securely around Steve’s waist. “A lot longer.”

At that moment, the lights inside the lounge flash, and people begin to gather around the little raised dais that contains the DJ booth, and where there is a microphone set up. Steve takes Bucky’s hand and they go in together, standing near the back of the crowd, as Tash steps onto the stage.

“Good evening everyone,” she says, in her smooth, smoky voice. “I hope you’re all drinking as much of my dad’s booze as you can. I promised him this party would cost him as much as a wedding.”

This is met with rousing applause and shouts of “Cheers!” and “Free booze!” Then Tash continues.

“Most of you know that I have been working alongside Shield for years, but I’ve never agreed to become a fully commissioned agent. Well…I’m still not. But I have something even better for you. Tonight, it is my pleasure to announce the official establishment of Shield’s brand new Sorcery and Technology Division, which will be funded and supported by Stark Industries.”

Pause for uproarious applause, shouts of “Woo!” and “STD division!”

“This partnership will allow us to expand our reach, help a lot more people, and finally get our spy tech out of the Cold War era. My apologies to everyone who was enjoying those lipstick cameras and exploding wingtips. To explain what all of this will mean in more detail, please welcome the CEO of Stark Industries, my father, Tony Stark.”

Even more uproarious applause as Tash steps down and Mr. Stark takes the stage. As he banters with the crowd, Steve and Bucky slip away to the bar, where Tash has gone to stand with Sam and Clint, and Wanda, who has finally appeared.

Steve immediately begins to ask Tash questions about the new division, in which Bucky has no interest whatsoever. Still full of pleasant feelings about the gift Wanda made for him, he embraces her and kisses her cheek, which gives her a start.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” he winces. “That probably scared you.”

“No, not at all,” she says, smoothing her hair. “Maybe a little. I never know which you you are.”

“You don’t?”

“No. Everyone says that you are like night and day, but you do not seem so very different to me.”

“I think that’s because you knew me better as the soldier than they did. I’m not a different person. He’s just me without my memories.”

“Well, _he_ can be quite an irritating little shit, so I hope your memories remain intact this time.”

“What?” Bucky says, looking as innocent as possible. “I was never an irritating little shit.”

“By never, do you mean always?”

“Name one occasion—”

“On the Quinjet. You bounced your stupid ball off my head.”

“That ball is not stupid! Also that was funny.”

“Ok. Paris, 1963,” she says, crossing her arms. “You demanded to go up into the Eiffel tower. I said no, so you climbed it anyway and threw knives down at me.”

“I wasn’t throwing them _at_ you, I was throwing them _near_ you.”

“Venice, same year. You pushed me into the canal.”

“No way, that doesn’t count. I was pushing you out of a line of gunfire.”

“Twice.”

“Did I…do that twice? Well, the first one was definitely to save your life.”

“I can deflect bullets, soldat! I do not need you to toss me into filthy rivers to save me from them!”

“Hey, do we need to separate you two?” Clint cuts in.

“No,” Wanda says, still glaring at Bucky. “This is how we express our affection.”

“Exactly,” Bucky says, still glaring at Wanda. “She yells at me until I remind her how funny the thing I did was, and she admits I was right.”

“Ok,” Clint says, backing away slowly. “Just don’t get into a fight in here, ok?”

Neither of them appear to hear him.

“That is not how it goes, soldat,” Wanda says. “You apologize for the things you did and admit they were not funny.”

“I don’t think so,” Bucky says musingly. “I’d apologize, but I wouldn’t lie and say something wasn’t funny when it was.”

“You…actually, you are right. I don’t think you have ever said your mischiefs were not funny.”

“But I have said I was sorry, which I’m sure I was, so there’s no reason you should still be mad,” Bucky reasons. “Plus, you know I only did that stuff because my brain had regressed to adolescence, and you were the only one who didn’t beat me when I misbehaved.”

“You can’t—you can’t do that,” Wanda says, tears instantly filling her eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh no, don’t cry,” Bucky says anxiously. “I wasn’t trying to make you sad, I was just reminding you why I was so awful.”

“You weren’t awful,” Wanda sniffles. “I’m sorry I was so impatient with you. It wasn’t your fault.”

“You were patient, though,” Bucky assures her. “You were so good to me, witch. You were my only friend.”

“You were my only friend too, soldat,” she says, trying in vain to wipe away her tears. “I watched them hurt you and take your mind apart so many times. I was so happy for you when you escaped, even though I was still trapped there alone. When they brought you back, it broke my heart.”

“But we’re both free now, and the necromancer and the old man are dead,” Bucky says, wrapping his arms around her. “We’re free and they can never make us slaves again. Because of you.”

“I could not have done it without you,” she sighs. “I would have—ugh, why do you stink like wolf?”

“Oh, that’s me,” Steve (who has apparently been listening) says cheerfully. “He’s my boyfriend now. We’re in love.”

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

 

 

 

 

“Ok. Ok,” Steve says, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “You’re sure you’re going to be ok?”

Bucky gives him a look.

“Sorry,” Steve says sheepishly. “I’m just worried about leaving you on your own.”

“Steve, I’ve lived on my own for four-hundred years,” Bucky sighs. “I will be fine for two days.”

“Ok, but…last time I let you out of my sight, someone kidnapped you. Like, within a minute. You have to understand how I’d be a little nervous.”

“Hydra is gone, Steve. You’re literally going to their ruined headquarters to help Shield sift through their dead bodies.”

“Ok, but—”

“Hey, goldilocks, sometime today!” Tash’s voice calls from the hallway.

“Alright, I’m going,” Steve says, picking up his duffel bag. “But text me and check in every few hours so I know you’re ok, alright?”

“Absolutely not.”

Steve makes his saddest face. “But, Buck—”

“I’m not falling for your puppy eyes, you dumb wolf,” Bucky laughs, craning his neck up to kiss him. “Go, before Tash comes and drags you out of here.”

“Ok, I’ll see you soon,” Steve says, finally heading out the door. “Love you!”

“Love you, too,” Bucky calls back, as it shuts behind him.

He smiles to himself as he goes to get dressed. Stupid, sweet wolf and his tenacious hyper-protectiveness. Normally, Bucky would find such behavior repulsive, but Steve is so endearingly earnest in his vigilance regarding his mate’s safety, that it feels more like being looked after by a dedicated family dog than an overbearing boyfriend.

Probably because there’s no underlying jealousy or desire to control his behavior in it. It’s pure Steve showing his devotion the only way he knows. He is, as Bucky is learning, pure good. If one wants to discover the motive behind anything Steve does or says, one has only to think of the best-intentioned, most selfless thing they can, and that is the answer. If Steve is one thing, he is relentlessly good.

Bucky is not entirely certain what the fates were playing at when they wove the shining, golden thread of Steve’s life together with the black fiber of his own, but whatever their goal, this is the closest he’s ever been to feeling gratitude toward some higher power. He wants to do something about it. Something to show his gratitude for Steve.

The only places to interact with higher powers around here are Catholic churches, though, and he doubts the Judeo-Christian god had anything to do with bringing a werewolf and a vampire together. And he couldn’t go into a church if he wanted to, so…maybe he should do something _for_ Steve. That sounds right. But what? How?

He thinks about this as he dresses (black jeans, dark red henley—a new one, because he’d been kidnapped in the old one and he has no idea what Hydra did with it—and black boots). He’s never cared about anyone enough to want to do anything nonsexual for them. He contemplates this for a while, then picks up his phone.

 **Winter:** What are you doing

About thirty seconds pass, then the phone vibrates with a message.

 **Bird Man:** Who is this? How did you get my number?

 **Winter:** Can you meet me at heart of darkness

 **Bird Man:** That’s it, I’m calling the cops.

 **Winter:** Fuck you bird this is important

 **Bird Man:** Yeah, I’m right by there already. See you in ten.

Bucky pushes on his sunglasses, slides his phone into his pocket, and trots downstairs. He’s used to Steve’s stupid, sunny face greeting him every time he walks out the door, and he catches himself glancing around for him as he descends the steps. The street feels so dull and empty without his blonde head and his shrink-wrapped blue t-shirt, that Bucky actually feels a little pang of homesickness for him.

He chides himself for this bit of childishness as he strolls along toward the coffee shop. Of course, it won’t be Tash behind the counter, with her knowing smirk and smoky drawl, either. It'll be one of the vapid twentysomethings she has left in her place. Ugh. Everything is irritatingly different without the people he has grown accustomed to.

The doe-eyed infant behind the bar today is his least favorite of the Tash impostors. She has bangs and chemically-lightened streaks in her brown hair, and is what Bucky can only imagine to be the single stupidest human being on the planet. The fact that she has not yet been institutionalized for her own safety is a source of endless amazement to him.

He imparts his order, then watches her warily as she sets about procuring the beverage. The first thing she does is to get out a paper cup. Good, so far. She then proceeds to retrieve a carton of whole milk, and to pour some into a steam pitcher. 

He sighs and removes his sunglasses. “Star.”

She looks up with a start. “It’s…Sky.”

“Sky,” he says. “What are you doing with the milk?”

“Um, steaming it for your—”

“For my…?”

“Ameri…cano. Right. Those don’t have milk. Sorry, I’m really new at this.”

“That’s alright,” he smiles tolerantly. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

When she has somehow managed to construct the correct beverage, he thanks her and walks back outside to sit at one of the wrought-iron tables. Within a minute or two, Sam comes strolling up, looking just as chipper and pleased with himself as usual.

“Sup, Dorkula,” he says, peering in through the window. “Who’s working?”

“The space child.”

“I don’t think I’ll risk it, then,” he grins, as he seats himself in the chair across from Bucky. “So, what’s going on? You said it was important.”

“It’s…about Steve,” Bucky says.

“Shit, he’s not pregnant, is he?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re really funny, bird. I want to do something. For him.”

“Ok. Something like what?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I need your help. I want to do one of those things people do that make other people feel…appreciated.”

“Awww, that’s real sweet,” Sam laughs. “You got it pretty bad for the wolf, huh.”

“Yes. I do. And I want to do something special for him, but I have no idea how to go about it. You’re married, you must know how this stuff works.”

“Sure, I can help. So, there’s different kinds of special. There’s sexy special, romantic special, thoughtful special—”

“That one,” Bucky interrupts. “The thoughtful one. How do I do that?”

“Well, you gotta think of things that make Steve happy, and—what’s the matter? You see a ghost or something?”

Bucky has suddenly sat up rigidly in his chair, and is staring straight ahead, with his green eyes wild and fierce beneath his furrowed brow.

“Vampire,” he hisses. “There’s another vampire here.”

“What?” Sam frowns, glancing about them.

Just as he does, swirling wisps of black smoke curl up from the sidewalk a few feet away. The smoke billows upward to form a pillar, which rapidly solidifies into a the figure of a man. He is smiling placidly, but Sam has seen friendlier smiles on rattlesnakes.

His skin is wax-white, and he is wearing a superbly tailored, close-fitting black suit. This, in combination with his sleek, black, collar-length hair, austere features, and ice-blue eyes, makes him look as if someone took the word 'sharp' and embodied it in human form.

“Hello, Winter,” he says, in a surprisingly melodic voice, with a posh, British lilt. “It is good to see you.”

“What are you doing here,” Bucky growls.

“Now, now. Is that any way to greet an old friend?” the man says with a slight bow, spreading out his white hands, palm-upward. “I come in peace.”

Bucky regards him skeptically. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“And with a warning.”

“Ok, that does sound like you. Go ahead and make your threat, then. I’m all ears.”

“Oh, the threat is not from me,” the man says coolly. “I’ve only come to make you aware of it.”

“I don’t have time for this bullshit, Loki,” Bucky retorts irritably. “Tell me what you came to say and get out of here.”

Loki’s icy eyes flicker over Sam. “There have been rumors lately, that you have been making strange friends. More than that, there are some who say you are…how shall I put it…losing your stomach for the game.”

Bucky stares at him, stone-faced.

“I don’t believe a word of it, of course,” Loki continues. “But you know how the young ones can be. So hotheaded and difficult to control. Always hungry to expand their territory.”

Holding Loki’s gaze with his, Bucky leans on his left elbow and taps his metallic fingers on the wrought-iron surface of the table. Loki looks at his hand, then quickly back at his face, failing to conceal a very brief expression of alarm.

“If the young ones think I’m weak, let them come and find out for themselves,” Bucky says calmly. “You have no reason to get involved.”

“Ah, but I do,” Loki replies smoothly. “You hold the largest territory in the city apart from mine. Unrest among the lower orders is undesirable for me, as well as you.”

“And?”

“And I have come to offer you my assistance, should there be a move against you.”

“Why.”

“Winter, please do not try my patience. I have come here as a friend, with a gesture of—”

“No,” Bucky cuts him off flatly. “You’ve never done anything that wasn’t in your interest in your immortal life. So, unless you’ve turned over a completely new leaf from a whole different species of tree, you’re here because you need my help. What kind of trouble are you in this time, Loki? And why is it suddenly my fucking problem?”

Loki gives a tight, thin-lipped smile. “Direct, as ever, I see. Do you mind if I sit?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Charming. One would almost believe you to be an American, you’ve taken so naturally to their manner of—” Loki breaks off suddenly, tilting his head, with an odd expression on his face. Then he fixes his eyes keenly on Bucky again. “Is that…wolf I smell? Wherever could that be coming from?”

“Me,” Sam interjects. “You got a problem with wolves?”

“Ah, but you’re not a wolf,” Loki says, with a venomous smile. “So it must be that a wolf has left its scent on you.”

Sam crosses his arms. “That’s right. He’s my boyfriend. We’re in love.”

“How very romantic,” Loki sneers, turning back to Bucky. “Regarding the matter at hand. Over the years, I have had to quell many upstarts who had begun forming into loose alliances in my territory. Minor annoyances, really. Since these rumors regarding you began, however, they have increased in frequency and severity. I now have reason to believe that something more organized is afoot. Perhaps even an elder, looking to unseat me and take Manhattan for himself. Neither you nor I can face such a threat alone, but together, we could.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Bucky asks. “Why would I care who holds Manhattan?”

“Winter, you are aware that my territory and yours are adjoined,” Loki says patiently. “A weakness in one opens the other to incursion. If I am removed, you will certainly be next.”

“I only control half of Brooklyn. Why don’t you bother whoever is holding the rest of Brooklyn and Queens? I’m sure they have as much interest in keeping the boroughs stable as I do.”

“Because no one vampire controls any significant area in either. Manhattan is mine. Everything in Brooklyn above Flatbush, from Cypress Hills to Sunset Park is yours.”

“I know where I live. Get to the point.”

“That is a staggering reach for two vampires, Winter. You are the only other of our kind with so much territory. That makes you the only other potential target, and hence, my only potential ally.”

“Why now, after all this time? No one has made a move on either of us in two centuries.”

“The reason none have been bold enough to challenge either of us openly is because we have cultivated a reputation for ruthlessness. Your increasingly strange behavior has threatened that, and now we are both in jeopardy.”

Bucky shakes his head slowly, his jaw muscles working beneath his skin as he glares down at the table.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” he says, at last. “I can’t believe you’d show up here now and try to drag me back into all your politics and intrigue. I just want some peace and fucking quiet for once in my fucking life.”

“Then help me,” Loki says, leaning forward earnestly. “We will make a show of strength, nip this insurrection in the bud, and remind the others that we are not to be trifled with. The way to peace is most often the sword, you know that as well as I do.”

“I don’t…I don’t know,” Bucky sighs. “I have other obligations now. It’s not that simple.”

“Winter, who helped you establish your territory here? And when you disappeared, all those years ago, who held it for you, believing you would return?”

“You did.”

“I did. It was in my interest to keep an ally close by, yes, but it was also because I care about what happens to you.”

“Give it a fucking rest, Loki,” Bucky snaps, his green eyes sparking with anger. “If you were so fucking worried about what was happening to me, you would’ve—”

Loki raises his perfectly groomed eyebrows. “I would have…what?”

“Nothing. I just—I need some time to think about this. Give me a couple of days, ok?”

“Naturally,” Loki says, rising from the table. “Come and see me, when you’ve made up your mind? You know where to find me.”

“Yeah.”

“And Winter,” he says. “It was good to see you.”

Bucky doesn’t reply, or even look at him. Loki dips his chin to Sam, then whirls away in a cloud of black vapor.

“So…you want to—” Sam begins.

“No.”

“Ok, then,” he says, drawing out his phone. “I guess Shield’s got a new top-priority target to deal with. I can’t believe I never heard of this guy.”

“Sam, please don’t,” Bucky says, looking up at him imploringly.

Sam blinks. “Did you just…use my actual name? Are you ok, man?”

“I’m fine. I—I will be. Just please, don’t get Shield involved in this.”

“Winter, as far as I can tell, that guy was a big-bad level vamp, talking about another one who might be coming to town with an army to wreck shit up. That’s what Shield is here for. To stop vamp turf wars killing a lot of innocent people.”

“I’m a big-bad level vamp, too. Whatever it is, at least let me try to deal with it first. I don’t want Shield to storm in guns blazing and wind up at war with Loki. Please.”

Sam looks at him for a moment, then slides his phone back into his pocket. “You’re gonna have to explain to me how you know this dude, then.”

“I met him back in the 1860s, when I’d been in America about a decade. He was a gentleman with a lot of money and business acumen, and I was a strong, older vampire with experience living in the US. He needed a guide and I needed to establish myself financially, so it was mutually beneficial. We got our teeth into New York early, and we were partners on and off for a long time.”

“Like…business partners?” Sam asks.

Bucky gives him a look.

“Oh,” Sam says awkwardly. “Ok, I get not wanting to bring your dirty laundry to Shield, but if shit gets out of hand, and I didn’t report the situation, I’m gonna wind up in hot water with the Director.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to ignore it, just give me a chance to talk to him first. He’s a fucking douchebag, but he can be reasonable. Maybe I can soften the ground and he and Shield can come to an understanding.”

“Alright, man, we’ll keep it off the radar for now. Seriously, though. Are you ok?”

“Yes. I’m ok. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well, you got on edge the minute that dude showed up, and you said the word please three times during this conversation. I’m kinda worried about you.”

Bucky leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes with his palms. “Loki is a…complicated issue. We were never in love, but things were intense between us. He could get into my head and fuck me up till I didn't know black from white. It ended badly. Several times. One time, it got…violent. He tried to kill me.”

“He tried to kill you?” Sam says dubiously. “That doesn’t sound intense, Winter, it sounds fucking crazy. We should have Shield take him in and sort this out after he’s locked up for everyone’s safety.”

“No,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Why the fuck not?”

Bucky keeps his eyes on the ground. “Because I was the one who turned him. I made him a monster like me. He’s my responsibility. If someone has to put him down, it will be me.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, man. That’s rough. Are you gonna tell Steve about it?”

“Of course I am, but I’m not dumping this shit on him while he’s out with Shield on cleanup detail from my last catastrophe. I’ll talk to him when he gets back.”

As if on cue, his phone vibrates in his pocket. The message is a selfie of sunny, smiling Steve, with Tash in the background giving the camera the middle finger. While he is looking at it, two more messages arrive, in quick succession.

 **Steve:** Hey Buck! We got to the island! They set up these big tents and there are all these people in HAZMAT suits. It’s awesome.

 **Steve:** They want me to sniff out anything mystical that might still be in the rubble, so I’ll be really busy. I miss you and I can’t wait to come home!

 **Winter:** Miss you too. Tell Tash I said hi and her new baristas are fucking idiots.

 **Steve:** Buck you know I’m not going to say that.

 **Steve:** Nevermind she read it on my phone. She says hi and she knows.

 **Steve:** Oops gotta go. Love you!

 **Winter:** Love you too.

“Fuck,” Bucky sighs. “I just wanted to do something nice for him. ‘Surprise, honey, we have to deal with my scheming vampire ex’ is not what I had in mind.”

Sam grins. “Aw. You call him honey?”

“Shut up, bird,” Bucky glowers. “And yes. He’s my boyfriend. We’re in love.”

 

 

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

 

 

 

The reconstruction after the civil war brought men and women from all over the country, and indeed the world, streaming back into America’s great cities. Investors looking to capitalize on rebuilding efforts, sowing their wealth into the expanding railroads and the booming development of new farms that came with them, laborers aware that the services of able-bodied young men were now in short supply and high demand, prostitutes to service the able bodies of the laborers, and men of the cloth to service the souls of everyone involved. The fog of war had cleared and the now reunited states were fertile soil awaiting the plough.

Hotels were good places to socialize in those days and, unbeknownst to most of the socializers, excellent hunting ground for vampires. People were always arriving and departing, and one was encouraged to mingle with one’s fellow sojourners, without becoming too attached to them personally. One would chat with one’s temporary friends at meals, in the drawing room in the evenings, and over cards in the lounge, after the proper ladies had withdrawn.

For the gentleman traveler, the hotel lounge was the bastion of relaxation and male companionship, out of the eye of the more fastidious sex. Even the zealous men of the cloth knew better than to interrupt a man’s nightly devotions to his brandy and tobacco with unwelcome displays of piety.

The Parkhurst hotel often permitted gentlemen who were not guests of the hotel to join their friends and business associates for the evening’s leisure in the lounge. Among these was Mr. James Barnes, a popular and charming young man, who was often to be found at a hand of poker, making the other gentlemen laugh with his dry Irish wit.

If asked, his passing acquaintances would be hard-pressed to say exactly what his business was or who his people were, but all would agree that he was a fine fellow and a welcome face at any card table. He bought rounds for the other gentlemen, lost more hands than he won, and paid his debts instantly and in cash. All valuable things, when one would not be staying long enough to keep accounts.

“Where the devil is McAllister?” Mr. Gilbert, a rather red-faced man with walrus-like moustaches inquired politely, as the first hand was dealt. “He owes me five dollars on last night’s game, and I intend to collect.”

“I haven’t seen his sallow little rat-face all day,” Mr. Langford answered cordially. “Maybe he’s finally taken properly ill. Good riddance.”

“Maybe,” Mr. Gilbert said, not appearing convinced. “Barnes, you know everyone. Where is McAllister?”

Mr. Barnes looked up from his cards, flashing his suave smile. “I hear he can’t stomach the humiliation of losing every hand to you, and he’s gone to take holy orders. He’ll be the reverend McAllister when next we see him.”

This produced a general laugh from the table, and flattered the walrus-moustache enough to soften his pique over showing the lowest card in the first hand.

“It would be just like that rascal to hide behind the cloth,” he grumbled, dropping the ante. “I’ll be damned if I call him reverend, though.”

“Don’t you mean, Mr. Gilbert,” Mr. Barnes replied, in his smooth Irish brogue, “that you’ll be damned either way?”

This produced an even heartier laugh from the table, and pleased the walrus-moustache immensely, as he was rather vain of his reputation for being a hard-drinking, self-made man of the world, who had never set foot in a church nor a dropped a penny in a poor box.

“Well, if the pearly gates are open to McAllister, I’ll pass on paradise,” he said, attempting to conceal his gratification as the second hand was dealt. “I won’t miss him any more than I’ll miss the five dollars, but a gentleman should stand to his debts.”

“Speaking of gentlemen,” Mr. Oriole put in. “One arrived here from England today, didn’t he?”

“Lord Bolingbroke,” Mr. Gresham said, laying down the ante this time. “They say he’s a very odd sort, but fantastically wealthy. Come to see about purchasing back what he can of the colonies, I’d wager.”

“What about him, Barnes?” Mr. Gilbert asked, apparently having conflated Ireland and England in his mind. “He a friend of yours?”

“Not of mine,” Mr. Barnes laughed. “I’m from Irish peasant stock. I’ve about as much in common with an English lord as you have with a Polynesian princess.”

“And you’re better for it,” Mr. Gilbert said stoutly. “All that noble blood is fruit from a poisoned tree, I say. A man who isn’t afraid to work hard and make his own way is worth a hundred coddled and cosseted—”

At a signal from Mr. Oriole, the walrus moustaches abruptly ceased flapping, and Mr. Gilbert became raptly absorbed in his cards. A man who could be none other than the subject of their conversation, was approaching the table with the hotel concierge.

Everything about him radiated gentility and quiet superiority. He was fair-skinned and black-haired, with severe patrician features, and a look of keen intelligence in his ice-blue eyes. Despite his obvious youth, he walked with a perceptible limp, and leaned upon a long, black cane with an ivory handle.

“Pardon the interruption, gentlemen,” the concierge said. “Please allow me to introduce our lately arrived guest, Lord James Bolingbroke. I know there is an empty seat at your table this evening. Would you mind if he joined you?”

“Not at all,” was the collective response, and “Do join us,” and “Welcome to the States, sir.”

The young lord bowed his thanks and returned the handshakes that were offered in greeting, then took the vacant seat beside Mr. Langford, across the table from Mr. Barnes.

“Have you ever played five-card stud, Lord Bolingbroke?” Mr. Gilbert inquired doubtfully.

“Mr. Bolingbroke, please,” the lord replied, dipping his chin. “I am not overly fond of titles. I’m afraid I can’t say that I have played five-card stud, but I trust you will help me pick it up.”

As the next hand was dealt, his eyes flickered over the faces of the card players, lingering on that of the extraordinarily beautiful Mr. Barnes. His attention, however, was fixed studiously on his cards, and remained so throughout the game, to the disappointment of his observer.

The young lord turned out to be a surprisingly quick study, and managed to win quite handily, to the endless annoyance of Mr. Gilbert, whose red face grew redder with each passing hand, despite his attempts to conceal his chagrin. He was heard to mutter, as he lumbered up the stairs to his room later, that all those colonizing bastards could toss themselves into the Boston harbor after their precious tea.

Mr. Gresham, Mr. Oriole, and Mr. Langford, who had thoroughly enjoyed Mr. Gilbert’s trouncing, proclaimed the young Englishman a stand-up fellow. Mr. Barnes, on the other hand, had seemed rather subdued this evening, keeping much quieter than usual. When the game drew to a close, he excused himself straightaway to take some air, rather than lingering in conversation, as was his wont.

He stepped out into the cool, crisp night and slipped around the corner of the hotel’s private courtyard, where he leaned on the wall and lit a cigarette. Smoking was allowed in the hotel, as it was everywhere in those days, but smoking was only his object insofar as it might alert a potential seeker to his presence.

Several minutes passed, then he heard the door open and shut, and footsteps on the stone path. The steps paused. He blew a white plume of smoke into the air and listened. The footsteps began again, approaching his position. After a few more seconds, the pale and angular face of the young lord appeared around the corner.

“Oh, Mr. Barnes,” he said, seeming to be surprised. “I didn’t know you were here. I won’t intrude.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Barnes replied. “Stay and have a smoke.”

Lord Bolingbroke accepted the proffered cigarette, which Mr. Barnes also lit for him, then stood regarding him closely with his ice-blue eyes. Mr. Barnes gazed away into the deep shadows of the garden, not appearing the slightest bit disturbed at being examined so openly. He smoked his cigarette in a leisurely manner till he had finished, then flicked away the stub.

“You get a good enough look to satisfy your curiosity?” he said, in his low, husky voice.

“Not nearly,” Lord Bolingbroke smiled. “I could look at you for hours upon hours.”

“How did you know?” Mr. Barnes asked flatly, looking the man in the face at last.

“I have been studying your kind for many years,” Bolingbroke said, stepping closer. “But I must admit, I have never encountered one so powerful, nor so old.”

“If you had, you wouldn’t be alive to stare at me like an insect in a jar. What do you want with our kind, anyway?”

“I want what you have,” Bolingbroke said simply. “The one thing all my wealth and influence can’t get me. Immortality.”

“Immortality,” Mr. Barnes spat. “So you’re a madman or a fool.”

“I assure you, I am neither, Mr. Barnes. I did not cross your path by chance. I sought you out. You have been tremendously difficult to locate, but I believe now that my labor has been worthwhile.”

“Has it, now,” Mr. Barnes said wryly.

“Indeed. You are…magnificent. The tales do you no justice.”

“I’m glad you’re pleased, because in about ten seconds, I am going to rip out your throat and drain your blood.”

“I don’t think you are.”

Bolingbroke moved another step closer, standing deliberately within arm’s reach of Mr. Barnes. The scent of his warm blood crashed over the vampire like a breaker on a rocky shore. His fangs ached and his head began to throb with the thirst. He pushed his hands into his pockets to restrain them from reaching out and seizing the brash young man.

“What…makes you think that,” he said hoarsely.

“Because you are interested. You want to know how I found out about you, and why I traveled across an ocean just to risk meeting you face to face.”

He reached out boldly and touched the lapel of the vampire’s coat with the tip of his finger. Mr. Barnes grabbed his wrist and dragged him into his arms, pressing his warm, human flesh up against his hard, cold body. The man’s heartbeat pounded through his own chest, the blood in his veins crying out to be taken, intoxicating him with its heat and scent.

“How did you find me,” he purred, letting his icy lips brush against the young man’s ear. “Tell me.”

“I—have the sight,” Bolingbroke gasped.

Mr. Barnes leaned back to look fiercely into his face. “You’re a Sybil?”

“My mother,” Bolingbroke panted, trembling in his iron grip. “My mother was a Sybil. She died before I was old enough to be taught the craft, but a small part of her power passed to me.”

“And that’s how you learned about vampires? Sibylline sight?”

“No, that is only how I found you. My mother kept a vast library, and I learned of your kind from her books. Among many others, there were accounts of a vampire named Winter. I—I used my sight to seek you out.”

“Why,” Mr. Barnes growled, giving him a shake. “Why me.”

“Power,” the young man said breathlessly. “I have encountered more than one of your kind. Young ones, wild and hungry, and too weak to be of any use to me as sires. But you are old and strong. I can feel your power. That is what I want.”

“You’re a madman, then. Like I said.”

“I am not a madman, Mr. Barnes. I am dying. I will not last more than another year or two, unless you agree to help me.”

“What do I care if you die?” Mr. Barnes sneered. “That’s what humans do.”

“Please, hear me out,” Bolingbroke urged. “You could certainly kill me now, but what have you got for your trouble? Blood, which you can get anywhere. But my resources are vast and of far more value than a temporary relief to your thirst. Make me like you, make me your partner, and we could accomplish great things together.”

For a long moment, Mr. Barnes held the young man fast, looking into his ice-blue eyes. Then he shoved him abruptly away.

“Go inside,” he said gruffly. “I have…I have to think. I need blood.”

“But you will consider what I have said?” Bolingbroke asked hopefully.

“I’ll think about it, that’s all. Now go. Quickly. Before I lose control and kill you.”

The young lord turned without another word and hastened away (as swiftly as he could, supported by his cane) leaving the disconcerted vampire to muse on the inconceivable boldness and utter madness of his proposition. He was still contemplating it when he returned to his own lodging, a much less desirable situation in a cellar beneath an unoccupied shop nearby.

Determined to make his own way in the world, he had taken only a few personal belongings and a small sum of money when he’d left the old duke. This had worked out well enough, since he could use his thrall to get what he wanted from moment to moment, but it had often been fairly rough living, as evidenced by his current accommodations.

Maybe it was his age telling upon him, but for a long time he had been feeling increasingly wayward and rootless. He had found himself longing to be established somewhere and have a home to call his own. That, of course, would require capital and a reliable source of income to sustain his needs long term. This wealthy young man might be the way to accomplish that.

This wealthy young madman. How could a human ask for this demon’s curse voluntarily? And what kind of presumptuous, entitled upstart would approach the lion directly and demand that it make a deal with him, rather than eating him outright. Absurdity. He had never even considered siring another of his kind and he wasn’t about to begin now.

And of course, he would have to kill the young fool, since he was frankly aware of his vampiric nature, and could apparently use his oracular power to find him, even across the entirety of the god damned Atlantic ocean. And his death would certainly be noticed, so goodbye to New York and his pleasant routine here for a while.

Unless…unless he were to take the young man out with him and let him see the true nature of the monster. If he observed the vampire making a kill, certainly his horror would deter him from his mad quest, and he would go away. If not, he could always just kill him.

Mr. Barnes had not admitted to himself how very lonely his life had become, and how this mortal man’s offer of companionship had struck a deep chord of longing in his soul. To have an equal, with whom to share his thoughts and ideas, and who would understand the burden of his vampiric nature. A partner.

Unaware of how thoroughly defeated he already was, his ridiculous idea of taking the boy out hunting to scare him off made perfect sense to him, and he went to sleep pleased with his cleverness.

The next night, Mr. Barnes informed Lord Bolingbroke that he must accompany him on his evening hunt, so that he might see exactly what he was asking for, before anything was formally arranged between them. The ecstatic young lord agreed readily, and the two rode in a carriage to a much rougher and more working-class area of town.

Their fine clothing drew suspicious glares from some passersby as they strolled down the narrow, dirty streets, serenaded by the sounds of domestic rows, crying babies, dogs barking, and the general tumult that accompanies squalor.

“How do you choose a victim?” Lord Bolingbroke inquired.

“They usually present themselves,” Mr. Barnes shrugged. “Some drunk fucker, running his mouth. A woman out walking alone. The trick is to get them isolated, kill them before they kick up a fuss, and leave the body before you’re observed.”

“I see. Will you let me choose one for you?”

Mr. Barnes smiled. “What, no compassion for your fellow man?”

“Dying is what we do,” Lord Bolingbroke answered, undeterred. “You said that yourself. How about that one, in the blue…whatever that sack thing is she’s wearing.”

“I think they call it a frock. And she’s carrying a baby. The last thing I need is a screaming infant drawing attention.”

“Ah, that is wise.”

They walked along for a while, Lord Bolingbroke sizing people up and rejecting them in a manner so dispassionate, it nearly gave his vampire companion chills. Maybe there was more to this boy than met the eye.

As they passed the door of a rowdy drinking establishment, several young men staggered out into the street, and stumbled along about twenty paces behind them, happening by ill fortune to be going the same way. Perhaps their fortune would not have been so ill, had they not chosen to begin hooting and catcalling the two well-dressed gentlemen.

When their overtures produced no response, the most belligerent of the four bellowed, “I said stop and gimme a kiss, sweetheart!”

At this point, the vampire and his noble companion paused and turned to face them, smiling placidly. Unwary of the wiles of the serpent, the drunken young men foolishly hastened their approach.

“Look at this coupla fuckin’ dandies,” the bellower slurred, eyeing them up and down. “All dressed up to meet the queen. I bet you’re carrying around a good bit of coin, too. Gimme what you got and I’ll let you go with a warning.”

Before Mr. Barnes had a chance to form a reply, Lord Bolingbroke had tossed up his cane, caught it lower on the shaft, and swung it in a lightning-quick arc to deal a heavy blow to the young man’s face. The young man fell to the ground, howling and wailing as blood poured from his nose and mouth.

His intrepid comrades gave a shout and started toward the nobleman, who twisted the head of the cane, separating it into two pieces, one of which was a very long, thin knife. This gave them pause and they blundered hastily to a stop, blinking bleary-eyed between the two gentlemen.

“Leave my sight, or be dealt with in the same way,” Lord Bolingbroke said calmly. “I will give you no other warning.”

The drunken fools considered this for a brief second, then turned and retreated in the opposite direction, leaving their bloodied comrade lying in the muddy street.

“I apologize, Mr. Barnes,” Lord Bolingbroke said, reattaching the sections of his cane. “I do not suffer fools gladly.”

But the scent of fresh blood had reached the vampire’s nostrils, and he was deaf to the apology. Bolingbroke looked on in wonder as his companion grabbed the young man’s shirt front and dragged him bodily up from the ground.

“No, no!” he sputtered, as the vampire’s teeth tore into his neck.

The young man gave a weak, gurgling cry, jerking and twitching as the life was drained from his body. Then the vampire let his empty husk fall and turned back to his friend, green eyes afire from within.

Lord Bolingbroke gasped as Mr. Barnes pinned him roughly to the bricks of the nearby wall, then covered his mouth in an urgent, feverish kiss, groping his body with his inhumanly strong hands, and grinding his hard cock against him through their trousers. The metallic tang of blood was fresh in his mouth and his skin was almost as warm as Bolingbroke’s own.

“Mr.—Mr. Barnes,” he panted.

“Winter,” the vampire growled.

“Winter,” he repeated shakily. “Please, don’t. Not here, please.”

Mr. Barnes drew away and looked at him with a frown. “What do you think I’m going to do to you?”

“I assumed you meant to fuck me.”

“You assumed I meant to just…fuck you? Without your leave?”

Bolingbroke looked confused. “Yes?”

“Well, you assumed wrong,” Mr. Barnes said, stepping back. “I wouldn’t take you by force.”

They straightened their coats and hats, then set off down the street again, back toward their own part of the city.

“I would like to…do that with you,” Bolingbroke said, after a moment. “Only I’d prefer it not be out of doors in the filthy street.”

“You are an odd fellow, Bolingbroke,” Mr. Barnes laughed. “I killed a man before your eyes just now, and you’re worried about sexual propriety.”

“I told you I was aware of your nature. If I am to live upon death, what is the sense in being horrified by it?”

“Fair point. The transformation can be rather horrifying on its own, though. You’ll want some time to prepare.”

“How so?”

“You must fast for two days prior, unless you want to vomit and shit and piss all over yourself. Apologies for being crass, but when the body dies, the demon blood will get rid of everything left in your system.”

“Not at all, this is fascinating. What else?”

“We’ll want to go somewhere secure, and have someone ready for you to drink as soon as you come to, because you’re going to be mad with the thirst. I mean fucking mad. I was locked up in a dungeon to stop me attacking the duke’s retainers till my mind returned.”

“How…how long did it take?”

“About eight hours, but most of it was sleep. After I came to and started howling, they fed me two servant girls and I passed out and slept it off. When I woke up again, I was myself, give or take all the new vampire things.”

“Like what?”

“Enhanced senses, tremendous strength, that sort of thing. Oh, and the ability to turn into smoke and fly about, which can be a bit disorienting when it happens by accident.”

“That does sound rather frightening.”

“You get used to it quick. It’s like flexing a muscle. But…Bolingbroke, you should know something. Becoming a vampire will take away your Sibylline sight. The demon blood won’t coexist with natural power like that.”

“I understand that, and I consider the tradeoff worthwhile. The sight will be of no use to me if I’m dead.”

“What are you dying of, anyway?”

“A wasting disease, same as my mother,” Bolingbroke sighed. “It’s progressing much more quickly in me. I have…fits. My body shakes and I can’t control it. They are extremely painful. In a year’s time, I will no longer be able to walk. Six months or a year after that, I will die.”

“I think you’ll die much sooner than that,” Mr. Barnes said, with a wicked grin. “But you’ll hardly notice.”

“So, you’ve decided, then?” Bolingbroke asked eagerly. “You’ll do it?”

“I am inclining that way. But we haven’t discussed what you mean to do for me.”

“Of course, of course. We will speak of all that the moment we get back to the hotel. I’ve got the papers drawn up and waiting.”

“Papers?”

“Legal documents, Mr. Barnes,” Bolingbroke smiled. “I intend to make you a very wealthy man.”

 

 

 

Bucky is awakened from this rather vivid and uncomfortable dream, by his phone chirping with a message. It is just before six, which is his usual waking hour in the colder seasons, but since spring is lengthening into summer, the sun is still not entirely set, and it takes him a moment to adjust his blurred vision and decipher the text.

 **Steve:** Hey Buck, I know it’s early for you, but I need to talk to you ASAP. Call me when you wake up, ok? Love you.

Bucky reads through it groggily, then stumbles to the bathroom to start the shower. It occurs to him as he is standing beneath the steaming water, that the tone of the message had suggested something other than Steve’s usual exuberance when communicating with him. Namely, his use of ‘ASAP’, rather than some other indicator of urgency, which has the ring an official matter. He shuts off the shower and dries his body hastily, then calls Steve’s number. It rings once before he picks up.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve’s serious voice says. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Yeah, but I was getting up anyway,” Bucky says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on?”

“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is, I’m coming home early. We’ll be back tonight.”

“That is good news. What’s the bad news?”

“We’ve got a hundred and fifty-two dead, twenty survivors. The problem is, there’s no sign of Zemo among them, dead or alive. I’ve been through the rubble and over every inch of the island myself. He’s just not here.”

Bucky’s blood runs cold. “You’re saying…you’re saying the old man may have escaped? He may be out there somewhere?”

“I don’t know how he could have. Their aircraft were all destroyed in the hydra attack, and their communications were totally knocked out. Except one, the survivors are all low-level soldiers. I rounded them up hiding in the woods, and they’ve been as cooperative as they can. We’re bringing them back to Shield for quarantine and further questioning, but none of them have seen or heard anything, and they don’t seem to have known much in the first place.”

“What do you mean, except one? Who’s the one?”

“He’s more of an _it,_ actually. I found him buried in the rubble. He’s like, a huge—”

“Troll,” Bucky interrupts. “Half-troll. That’s Josef.”

“Oh, he’s a troll? That makes sense. He’s really strong. I thought he was dead, but he woke up and started thrashing around, and almost caused another cave-in. Tash had to put her demon whammy on him to sedate him before we could pull him out of there.”

“Steve, please don’t let them kill him. He’s big and dangerous, but he has the intelligence of a toddler. Without the old man telling him what to do, he’s…well, he’s marginally less dangerous.”

“They’re not going to kill him,” Steve says. “They have a cell capable of holding him for some reason, so he’s going in there till they can figure out what to do with him. Do you think Wanda could help?”

“No. Her magic doesn’t work on him because of his troll blood. I might be able to talk to him, though.”

“He can talk?”

“Sort of. He can speak in one or two-word phrases, and he can’t really understand abstract ideas or concepts. If he knows anything about what happened to the old man, though, it’s worth a try.”

“Ok. I’ll tell Tash. We’re gonna be wheels up in two hours, so I have to go make sure everything is in order. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“You want me to meet you at Shield?”

“No way. I’m going home first, then directly to your place. I need to shower off about ten pounds of dirt and soot, and I need to fuck you really badly.”

Despite the emotionally taxing nature of the past twenty-four hours, Bucky can’t help smile at Steve’s frank and enthusiastic desire for him.

“Why don’t you just come here,” he says. “I’ve got a shower, and it has a singular advantage over yours.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“I’ll be in it with you.”

“I love you.”

“I know. I’ll see you soon.”

 

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

 

 

 

 

“Oh my god I missed you so much!” Steve says, burying his face in Bucky’s neck. “I’m never leaving you for that long again. It was terrible.”

“It was twenty-four hours, Steve,” Bucky laughs.

Steve lifts his head and looks at him mournfully. “Twenty- _nine_ hours, Buck! I almost died!”

“You’re right, what was I thinking. You must’ve suffered terribly. But…can you let me up now? You’re crushing me and you left the front door open.”

“Oops, sorry,” Steve says sheepishly, as he pushes himself up. “Your floors are really clean, by the way.”

“Ow! What the fuck is in your pocket?”

“I’m happy to see you,” Steve grins, pulling Bucky up from the floor as well. Then he reaches into his pocket. “And it’s my ball! It was sitting there on the Quinjet right where I left it!”

“Steve,” Bucky says, crossing his arms. “Are you saying that you found the ball and you didn’t tell me?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” Steve chirps, tossing the ball to Bucky. “I am really dirty, though. I better…what’s that smell?”

At that moment, Bucky’s phone vibrates, and he types the code for the secure entry downstairs.

Steve’s eyes widen. “I smell…cashew chicken and Mongolian beef.”

“It’s no big deal,” Bucky shrugs. “I figured you’d be hungry, so I ordered you some food from Mr. Lao’s.”

“Mr. Lao’s is the best!” Steve exclaims, throwing his arms around his startled vampire beloved and peppering his face with kisses. “Being home is the best! You’re the best! I love you!”

“I love you too, Steve,” Bucky laughs, prying himself free, then dusting off the front of his shirt. “Why don’t you go start the shower while I pay the delivery guy.”

“Ok,” Steve says, backing away down the hall. “But you better come get in with me. You said you would.”

“Steve walk facing forward, you’re going to—yeah. Run into something. Don’t worry about it, I’ll pick it up. Just get in the shower, you dumb wolf!”

The delivery man has just walked up and is tapping on the open front door. Bucky pays him and collects the food, which he puts into the empty refrigerator, then sets the oven so it will heat up while he and Steve are otherwise occupied. He can hear the water running and Steve singing to himself.

He sighs and shakes his head as he strips out of his clothing. Stupid, adorable, living-sunbeam Steve. Who had been so excited to see him after twenty-four hours of separation, he had literally bounded in the door and knocked Bucky flat on his back in his eagerness to embrace and kiss him.

If he thinks too hard about Steve and the way he is, Bucky feels a pang in his chest and his eyes sting. He has never been loved this way. Never _imagined_ being loved this way. He didn’t even know this was a possible thing that could exist between two people.

He doesn’t mean to compare Steve and Loki, but his vampire partner’s sudden reappearance brings the comparison rushing to mind, whether he wills it or no. Steve, with his sunny-golden hair, golden-tanned skin, open, honest, smiling face, and warm, tenacious affection, seems to be the diametric opposite to Loki, with his jet-black hair, alabaster skin, cunning, deceptive face and aura of cool detachment.

That was the other thing, Loki had never seemed to be more than the slightest bit affected by Bucky’s presence or absence. Back then, he’d taken it as a sign of healthy independence, but that was because he’d never loved Loki, and the less attached he appeared to be, the better Bucky thought it was for both of them. Until Loki had tried to kill him.

Ugh, and now he has to tell perfect, beautiful, embodiment-of-goodness Steve about how he sort of used to date the literal serpent from the garden of Eden and oh, by the way, he’s back and he wants my help. But that can wait till later. Steve is naked in his shower right now (singing Duran Duran’s Hungry Like the Wolf because of course he is, Jesus Christ, Steve) and Bucky is feeling the need to be close to him like a physical ache.

“Fuck me,” he says, as he draws aside the curtain and steps into the shower behind Steve. “How is your ass even physically possible?”

“I dunno, it just looks like that,” Steve says cheerfully. “It’s pretty good, right?”

“Yeah, pretty good like the Mona Lisa is a pretty good painting,” Bucky says, sliding his hands over its smooth, taut curves under the hot water. “I love you so much.”

“Are you talking to me, or my ass?” Steve asks, looking suspiciously over his shoulder.

“Both,” Bucky laughs, giving it a squeeze. “What did you get into over there? The water coming off you is filthy.”

“I got covered in grime crawling around in that wrecked up building. Tash even dusted me off before I got into the jet, and I’m still all dirty.”

“Just like a dog. Rolling around in all the dirt you can find. Hand me that shampoo. I’ll wash your hair.”

“What? I already washed it.”

“Then why is there still grey crud on your—Steve, this is conditioner. Is this what you used?”

“Yeah. What’s conditioner?”

“It’s to make your hair soft _after_ you wash it. Hand me that other bottle.”

“Which one, Buck? There are six bottles in here.”

“The black one. The other black one. It says shampoo on it.”

“Oh. Here you go. What are all these other things?”

“Face wash, body wash, shaving balm, and a different body wash.”

“Wow. Is that why your hair and skin are so nice?”

“Not really, I just like the way they smell,” Bucky says, working the aromatic lather into Steve’s scalp. “You’re alive, though. You really should develop a skin care routine.”

“I have a routine. Wash, shave, dry.”

“You are such a man,” Bucky laughs, pushing Steve’s head into the steaming water to rinse out the shampoo, then leaning against his muscular back. “God, your skin feels good. You’re so fucking warm.”

“I like how cold you are,” Steve says, turning to wrap his arms around him. “You’re like the cool side of the pillow when it’s hot outside. And sometimes you warm up and you’re like a nice warm featherbed when it’s cold outside.”

“Steve, I think you’re sleepy,” Bucky smiles.

“I am not,” Steve yawns. “I’m excited to see you and have…lots of sex and food.”

“You yawned twice during that sentence. Did you sleep at all when you were on the island?”

“No, I was too busy. I’m really ok, though. I only need to sleep every few days.”

“Alright, but how about you relax and let me take care of you tonight. I don’t need you to fuck me into the next dimension every time I see you.”

Steve grins. “Yeah, but I really like doing that.”

“I do too,” Bucky says, reaching around to shut off the water. “Come on, let’s get dried off and we can—wait Steve don’t—!”

Bucky’s thought, unfortunately, has gotten from his brain to his mouth a fraction of a second too late to stop Steve shaking himself like a dog and spraying water all over the bathroom.

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” Steve winces, realizing what he’s done. “It’s an instinct. I can’t help it.”

“How do you even do it, though?” Bucky sighs. “You don’t have canine anatomy when you’re in your human form. It’s not a thing you should be able to do.”

“I have no idea. I’m gonna clean it all up. I really am sorry.”

“It’s a bathroom, Steve, a little water isn’t going to hurt. I already told you, you’re not doing anything tonight. The food’s in the fridge and I heated up the oven in case it’s too cold. Go start eating while I finish up in here.”

Steve obeys and Bucky remains to towel off his body and hair, also wiping down the mirror and sink, then dropping the towel to quickly swipe it across the floor, before tossing it in the tub. No sense in having slippery floors. Or risking water soaking in and ruining the hand-glazed Italian porcelain tilework.

The heavy, greasy scent of the Chinese food assails his nostrils as he enters his bedroom. He loathes food smells, but Steve has to eat, and he is more than willing to put up with it to make Steve happy. He pulls on a pair of black briefs and his soft, dark-grey pajama bottoms and pads out to the kitchen to see that Steve is getting himself fed.

“Steve, there are dishes in the cabinet,” he laughs. “You don’t have to eat from the boxes.”

“Oh, it’s ok. I’m almost done,” Steve says, with his mouth full.

“You’re also stark naked.”

“Sorry, I didn’t bring any clean clothes. I was too excited to see you and I forgot to stop at my place.”

“It’s fine with me. I’ll just enjoy the view. But, I was thinking. If you didn’t have to remember to stop at your place…I mean. If your clothes were already here—”

“Oh, Buck, that’s a great idea!” Steve beams. “I could leave spare clothes here so I don’t have to worry about it. But are you sure you wouldn’t mind? Your closet is really full.”

“There’s a whole other walk-in closet in the guest bedroom,” Bucky shrugs. “And another one in the other guest bedroom. But, uh…I wasn’t talking about you leaving some spare clothes here.”

“Oh,” Steve says, tilting his head curiously. “What did you mean?”

“Well, I was thinking maybe you could…have all your clothes here.”

“That’s kind of silly, Buck. Then I’d have to come over here every time I wanted to change clothes.”

Bucky looks at him patiently.

“Wait,” Steve says slowly, his big, bright-blue eyes going as round as possible. “You’re not saying you want to…you want to live together…are you?”

Bucky casts his eyes down at the floor and shifts awkwardly. “I mean, I just thought maybe…if you wanted to. We could try it.”

“Are you sure? I mean, are you really really sure? And please say you’re not messing with me because I don’t know if I can handle it.”

“I’m not messing with you, you dumb wolf. I love you. Of course I want you to live with me. Also, I know how small your apartment is and I’m not sure how you even fit inside it. You can’t be comfortable there.”

“Yeah, it’s…snug. How do you know, though? You’ve never even been to my place.”

“I know how big all the apartments are. I own the building.”

Steve looks even more confused than usual. “You own my building?”

“Uh. Yeah. Is that weird?” Bucky says, with a little grimace. “I don’t manage the property or anything. I have people that do that. But I own it. And this one. And a few more in the neighborhood.”

“Ohhhhh property,” Steve says, as his brain finally makes the connection. “That’s what you meant when you said your lawyers would have to get involved if we got married. So, you make your money by being a landlord.”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. That’s super smart.”

“It doesn’t bother you that I own a lot of property?”

“Why would it? I think it’s great that you’re wisely invested. I mean, you’re going to be around a long time. May as well be stable and put down roots.”

Bucky smiles and presses a kiss to Steve’s cheek. “You’re amazing, Steve. Now go get in my bed while I take these boxes out to the garbage. I can’t have them in here stinking all night.”

“I can do it,” Steve protests. “It’s my mess.”

“You are still naked, so no you can’t. Bed. Go.”

Bucky watches Steve walk down the hall, then stuffs the empty food containers into a plastic bag, ties it up, and takes it out to drop it in the garbage chute. When he returns, Steve is sprawled out on his bed, already fast asleep. Bucky stands in the doorway gazing at him for a long moment, then climbs into bed beside him.

This is the middle of his daytime, and he’s not the least bit tired, but he’s content to lie here beside Steve, listening to him breathe and feeling his strong, regular heartbeat in his warm chest. He really hadn’t intended to wake him, but after about fifteen minutes, Steve stirs and opens his big, blue eyes.

“Hey, Buck,” he smiles. “Sorry, I must’ve drifted off.”

“It’s ok, you really needed it. You go back to sleep, I’m fine.”

“Well…I’m not sleepy now, though,” Steve says, tugging at the waistband of Bucky’s pajama pants.

“Is that so?”

“Uh huh.”

“Good,” Bucky says, with a mischievous smile.

Steve gazes adoringly up at him as he pushes himself out of bed and retrieves a little bottle of lube from the night table, then slips out of his pajama pants and briefs. This is unequivocally the most beautiful man who has ever existed. He’s sure of it.

Every single inch of him is flawless. From his rich, wavy, dark hair, to his big, long-lashed green eyes, to his pouting lips that look like they were fashioned solely for the purpose of being kissed. His body is powerful and lithely muscular, and he moves gracefully, like a panther or some other sleek jungle cat. The sight of his gorgeous, uncircumcised cock makes Steve’s mouth water.

He admires it openly as Bucky straddles him and slicks him with lube. He’d never seen one like it before Bucky’s. It’s different from his own, since Steve was born a good three-hundred years later in the United States, when circumcision had become the standard, but he loves that it’s different. It is another facet to the fascinating creature that is his mate.

His mate. The love of his life. When they are together, there is nothing else in the world. Nothing but being with him, being inside him, holding him, kissing him, moving in unison, like two halves of the same whole. His eyes ignite and his fangs lengthen in his mouth as the wolf awakens, called by the deep, primal pleasure of his mate’s scent and taste, and naked skin against his own.

He groans and his breathing becomes rapid and shallow, as Bucky pushes himself down onto his rigid cock, swallowing it in his taut, squeezing hole. His body isn’t warm at first, but it’s colder outside than inside, and it heats up as he begins to rock his hips, as if it’s absorbing Steve’s own heat and reflecting it back to him, which in fact, it is.

Bucky puts his hands on Steve’s thighs and leans back, spreading his legs wider, displaying his beautiful cock, bouncing as he rides him. Steve takes it in his hand and strokes it, running his eyes over Bucky’s broad chest and the chiseled muscles of his abdomen, flexing and contracting beneath his pale skin as he moves himself up and down.

His cock is hot and rigid, and leaking clear fluid all over Steve’s hand as he strokes it. Steve feels his thighs begin to shake, and his insides constricting tighter on his shaft. He’s going to come soon. He bucks his hips to meet him as he comes down, driving himself in deeper and harder, plunging over and over into his perfect body, wringing his cock in time with his thrusts.

Bucky’s back arches and he gives a hoarse cry. His body jerks and shudders, and his asshole convulses on Steve’s shaft, as his cock throbs and spits in his hand, spurting clear fluid all over his stomach. Before his spams subside, Steve takes hold of him and rolls him onto his back.

The wolf snarls possessively, sinking his fangs deep into the meat of his mate’s shoulder as he pounds his cock into his hot, slick hole. His balls feel tight and heavy, like they’re so full they might burst. Just when he thinks he might die from the strain, the tension snaps and he comes, releasing his intense, aching ejaculation deep inside his mate’s body.

He disengages his fangs and lies there panting on top of Bucky, pressing kisses into his neck and shoulder as the euphoric high slowly dissipates. Bucky laughs his low, husky laugh and cards his icy fingers through Steve’s sweat-damp hair. They feel so good on his hot scalp. Bucky’s body feels so good. Cooling him off as he overheats. Balancing him perfectly.

“I love you,” Steve pants, lifting his head to look into his eyes. “I love you—so much.”

“I love you, too,” Bucky says softly.

Of course, he’s not out of breath because he doesn’t need to breathe. And also he didn’t go wolf-crazy just now and tax all his muscles fucking his mate like a maniac.

Steve reaches up and strokes his white cheek. “I’m sorry I get so wild when we have sex. I can’t really help it.”

“I told you I like it, so stop fucking apologizing,” Bucky says, laughing again. “You’re always so sorry for being so perfect. Imagine if you actually had any flaws. You’d be a big, apologetic mess.”

“I have flaws,” Steve retorts, rolling onto his back. “I have tons of flaws. You’re the one who’s perfect.”

“I’m a four-hundred-year-old dead man, Steve. I am not perfect. Anyway, what flaws do you have? Being too wonderful and honest and selfless and loyal?”

“No, I—well, you know how you call me dumb wolf all the time? I know I’m not actually stupid, but when it comes to anything other than military stuff, I can be kind of slow. Like, how I’m bad at social lying and I don’t understand when people are doing it.”

“Yeah, but that’s just adorable. Try again.”

“Ok, also I am extremely single-minded when I have a purpose. Like, to a fault. And I’m defiant. I don’t like to be told I can’t do anything. If you want me to do something, tell me I can’t, cause that’s pretty much the way to get me to do it. And I don’t like rules that don’t make sense, so I don’t obey them. Because I think I know better than everyone else.”

“Well, to be fair, you usually do.”

“Yeah, but people don’t like when another person thinks they’re above the rules, and they get mad. But the rules are in place to protect stupid people from themselves, or weak people from people who will hurt or take advantage of them, or to enforce behavioral guidelines on people who can’t exercise good judgement and tell right from wrong on their own. Those rules don’t apply to me, so I don’t follow them.”

“Has it ever gotten you into trouble?”

“It’s gotten me yelled at for not following the rules, but I don’t care, because what I’ve done was not inherently wrong. That’s rebellious. And kind of arrogant. Those are flaws. But we haven’t gotten to the big one. My major flaw.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I lose control. I get angry and I lose control. It takes a lot, but it has happened, and when it does, I am violent and I am dangerous. I don’t even know if…if I can be stopped.”

Bucky frowns. “What do you mean?”

“When I disobeyed orders and went after my pack, I went alone. I tracked them by scent and I found the Nazi base where they’d been taken, inside this big, old castle. The minute I was there, I knew they were dead. I could smell their bodies all the way down in the underground tunnels. I went in to identify them anyway. I had to.

They’d been locked up in a huge, steel cage and shot full of holes. Silver-tipped bullets. But it wasn’t just my pack. There were other cages. Dozens of them. All full of supernatural people, all dead and mutilated.

I lost control. I went through the entire castle and all the outbuildings, and slaughtered every single person I found. Literally tore them apart. Zemo said thirty-seven, but those were just the S.S. men. There were other Nazis there, and I killed them too. I think it was closer to sixty.

The thing is, I don’t regret it, and I don’t feel guilt over it, because those people were human beings who chose to be monsters. They chose to inflict suffering on other people, for vile, stupid reasons.”

“But didn’t you go underground after that?”

“Yeah, but I went underground because I was lost and grieving and alone, and I couldn’t take the pain. Not because of guilt over what I’d done. So that’s my flaw. The big one. I get angry, I lose control, and I kill without remorse. And I don’t know if anyone can stop me when it happens.”

“Why do you say that? That you don’t know if you can be stopped?”

“Because the S.S. men I slaughtered used silver-tipped bullets on me, too. A lot of them. They didn’t even slow me down. I broke through a reinforced steel blast-door on a concrete bunker and killed everyone inside.”

“But…I shot you with a silver-tipped bullet and it worked.”

“I hadn’t lost control, Buck. Why do you think I kept warning you and telling you I didn’t want to hurt you?”

“Well, I wasn’t really in my right mind, Steve. I assumed you were just trying whatever you could think of to get me to stop. What about my knives?”

“Same thing. Also, you were using knives with an enchantment on them to pierce wolf-hide. I doubt regular ones would have done anything at all.”

“I know I said it before, but…I’m sorry I shot you and stabbed you.”

“I don’t think you have said it before.”

“Haven’t I? Well, I am.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t have a choice.”

“I know, but I love you and knowing that I hurt you sucks. I hate having the soldier’s memories sometimes. I’ve done some brutal, fucked up shit.”

“Hey…why did you kill those wolves? How did you know about my pack and how to get to me?”

“I didn’t. I decided I needed something personal to lure you out, and my collar told me what to do. I’m so sorry about that, Steve. I don’t think even the soldier would have done it, if he’d understood how truly horrible it was. He—I didn’t ever enjoy killing and being cruel. I was just good at it.”

“I know, Buck. I remember how you were. You were nice to Sam and Clint and you warned me to put on your mask, because you’d bite people. You were actually pretty sweet, when you weren’t trying to kill me.”

“That’s because aside from the murder directives, the soldier was essentially me as a child. Before centuries of bitterness and anger made me the asshole I am now.”

“I like the asshole you are now. Which isn’t very much of an asshole, anyway. You’re just angry cause you’ve been hurt, and you don’t want to be hurt anymore, so you try to push everyone away.”

“I know,” Bucky glowers. “And it was working really well until you showed up with your stupid ball and your stupid blue eyes and your stupid, sexy wolf-stink and ruined my life.”

“You can act like you hate it all you want, but you asked me to move in with you, so…”

“Ugh, I take it back. Get out of my house, you dumb wolf.”

“Ha! Nice try, Buck. You’re my mate and you’re stuck with me. And I’m already making plans for where I’m going to hang up all my posters.”

Bucky stares at him in horror. “Posters…?”

“You are super easy to freak out,” Steve laughs, squeezing him more tightly in his arms. “Oh, but I am going to need you to move your couch.”

“Why?”

“So I can fit my futon in the living room. Hey! No summoning knives! I was joking!”

“I wasn’t summoning knives, I was calling the ball. See? Here, you can hold it.”

Steve takes the fuzzy, neon-green ball that has leapt into Bucky’s hand and rolls it around in his palm, looking intently into his face. “You have to tell me something, and you think I’m not going to like it.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Well, yeah. You’re trying to soften me up with the ball.”

“Is it working?”

“Probably. It’s a really good ball. What do you have to tell me?”

“It’s…about a vampire I used to know. I mean, I still know him, but we hadn’t spoken in a long time. His name is Loki.”

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

 

 

 

 

Steve watches Bucky’s face intently as he describes this vampire, Loki. Their relationship sounds complicated and awful. Fortunately, Bucky had given Steve permission to read his scent signals when he’d explained them, so at least he knows how he’s feeling as he talks about it. There’s some anger, but mostly he reads pain and remorse. He’s not sure why. Loki does not sound like a very nice person.

“But, Buck…Loki doesn’t sound like a very nice person,” he says. “Why were you with him?”

“I wasn’t a very nice person either, Steve,” Bucky sighs. “I made a deal with him. He came to me and told me he was dying. He said if I would turn him, we could be partners and sort of…go into business together. He had a lot of capital and good connections, and I was old and strong and knew how to establish territory, so it made sense.”

“Oh. He must be really important to you, then. Because he’s family.”

“Family?” Bucky says, grimacing as if he’s tasted something bitter. “No. Vampire kinship doesn’t work that way. It’s not like he’s my son or something.”

“Well, I hope not, since you two had sex,” Steve laughs. “But you know what I mean.”

“I do. We have a…connection, because I sired him. Which is why he’s still alive. And technically he’s an ally, but we’re not friends.”

“Are you going to help him?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to talk to you first and ask your advice.”

Steve’s chest feels warm inside and he can’t help smiling. “You wanted to ask for my advice?”

“Of course. You’re better than me at strategic thinking and things like that. And I thought before I made any decisions, I should find out how you’d feel about me hanging around with a guy I used to sleep with.”

“How I feel about it?” Steve tilts his head thoughtfully. “I guess I feel…worried, because you seem stressed. And because you said he has tried to kill you, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Bucky smiles. “How can you possibly be this good, Steve?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re just amazing. So, what do you think I should do?”

Steve considers this for a moment. “Well, you said you’d meet with him, so you probably should. Unless you think he’s trying to lure you into a trap so he can hurt you. In which case, I will have to kill him.”

“That’s not really his style,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “Besides, if he wanted to hurt me, he wouldn’t come to me ahead of time and give me a chance to prepare.”

“What about this threat to his territory? Do you think he’s lying?”

“No, he was never an outright liar. He just has a way of…twisting the truth to suit his purposes.”

“Misrepresentation is still lying, Buck. Half the truth is often a great lie. Abraham Lincoln said that.”

“That was Benjamin Franklin, honey.”

“Oh,” Steve blinks. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, probably something to do with his common-law wife and illegitimate son. Either way, if Loki says there’s a credible threat to his territory, there probably is. He wouldn’t risk showing up and pissing me off for no reason. But there’s definitely something he’s not telling me. I’m just not sure how to handle it.”

“Well, how do you _want_ to handle it?”

“I don’t want to get tangled up with him again, but I don’t want to ignore something that could destabilize the boroughs and end up in a bloodbath.” Bucky rubs his hands together anxiously. “I think…I think we should go and see what he has to say. Maybe you can get a better read on him than I can.”

“Are you sure you want me there?” Steve asks. “He might not like you bringing a wolf around, and I wouldn’t want to make things any more tense than they are.”

“He’ll have to deal with it. We’re together. I’m not going to pretend my other half doesn’t exist just because his fucking vampire sensibilities might be offended.”

Steve’s smile brightens a couple hundred lumens. “Your other half?”

“God damn it,” Bucky mutters. “Stop looking at me like that, it was just a turn of phrase.”

Steve laughs and pulls him into his arms. “Awww, you’re so in love with me, admit it!”

“You know I am, I tell you all the time,” Bucky says, attempting to twist away. “Let me go. You’re messing up my hair.”

“No, see, I’m not done kissing your face. And your hair is always a mess, that’s how you wear it.”

“Yeah, but it’s a structured mess,” Bucky protests, writhing out of his grasp. His phone chirps and he picks it up, just as Steve recaptures him and begins nuzzling his cheek. “What’s up, bird?”

“Tell him I said hi,” Steve whispers, at which Bucky rolls his eyes.

“I hear it,” Bucky says into the phone. “How long’s he been doing that?”

He pauses, listening.

“Only when they’re desperate. They don’t like the way humans taste. Mostly goats. Yes, I’m serious. Well, would you rather feed him people? I don’t know, maybe. But he’ll need a lot.”

Another pause.

“We’ll be on our way in a few minutes. Just keep everyone out of there. The less he sees you guys the less upset he’ll be. Yeah, I will. Ok, bye.” He hangs up and turns to Steve. “Josef is awake and kicking up a huge fuss. They need me to get down there and try to talk to him.”

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, as Bucky hops up and heads down the hall.

“Changing,” he calls over his shoulder. “If I want him to trust me, I have to look like the soldier.”

Steve follows Bucky to the walk-in closet in his bedroom, where he pulls a box down from the shelf, containing his boots and holsters and belts. The black trousers and undershirt have been tucked away in the bottom drawer of a dresser, and the leather chest armor is hanging on a wood suit-hanger. Steve takes the armor and carries it out for him, laying it on the bed beside the rest of the things.

“I didn’t think I’d be putting this stuff on again anytime soon,” Bucky says, as he peels off his black jeans and white t-shirt. “It’s gonna feel strange.”

“You need any help?”

“Yeah, with the chest piece. And my holsters. I always had handlers to dress me.”

“That must’ve been uncomfortable,” Steve says, watching him pull on the undershirt and trousers. “Having a bunch of people help you get dressed.”

“Not really,” Bucky shrugs, as he sits down to lace up his boots. “There were people who dressed me, treated my wounds, even washed me. That was just the way things were.”

“They had people to wash you?”

“Yeah. I was a piece of equipment and I had a maintenance crew. I didn’t know any other way.”

Bucky holds out his arms and Steve helps him tug the supple, close-fitting, leather chest armor over his shoulders, and get the straps fastened. It takes them a moment to figure out which belts and holsters go where, but soon he is fully geared up.

Steve steps back as Bucky frees his hair from its black rubber band and bends over to rough it up with his fingers. When he stands upright again, Steve finds himself looking at the Winter Soldier. Jesus Christ. He turns away quickly to conceal the flush rising in his cheeks, at his palpable physical reaction.

Bucky frowns. “What?”

“Oh, I—nothing,” Steve says. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Why are you all pink? What’s wrong?”

Steve looks up sheepishly. “I don’t know how weird this is, but…you look really fucking sexy like this.”

“It’s a little weird, Steve,” Bucky smirks. “This is what I was wearing when I tried to kill you. A couple of times.”

“I know, but you’ve got the black leather and those boots and all those straps,” Steve pleads. “I can’t help it. You look so powerful and intimidating.”

“I’m powerful and intimidating whether I’ve got on my soldier gear or not,” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow. “I think you might be kinky, Steve.”

“I might be what?”

“Kinky,” Bucky repeats.

“What’s kinky?”

Bucky responds by hooking his finger into the waistband of Steve’s jeans and pulling him close, sliding his cybernetic hand slowly up his chest. Steve shudders as the cold, steel fingers and thumb close around his throat. Not choking him, just resting there. Holding his gaze with his fierce, green eyes, Bucky begins to apply pressure to his windpipe.

Steve’s head spins. His face feels suddenly hot and his heart is pounding. He can’t move or even think. He doesn’t want to. His eyes roll closed and his lips part, panting like a dog as the metal hand squeezes tighter.

“You like that,” Bucky growls in his ear.

“Yes—yes,” Steve manages to choke out.

Bucky releases him and steps back, smiling wickedly. “Good to know.”

“Holy…fucking shit,” Steve breathes. “How did you do that to me? Why did I react that way?”

“Because you’re kinky, like I said,” Bucky laughs. “I’ll teach you all about it later. Right now, we have to go deal with an angry, hungry troll who might have the only clue to the whereabouts of the man who enslaved and tortured me.”

“Yeah, we should…we should go,” Steve says, as he follows Bucky out of the room, still blinking and lightheaded. “But you will definitely teach me about it later, right?”

 

 

 

 

“How’s he doing?” Bucky asks Sam, as they stride down the hall in Shield’s basement security sector.

“Well, we stuck a tray of hot dogs through the slot,” Sam says. “He ate ‘em all, then he chewed up the tray and banged on the walls with it for a while. Now it looks like he’s sleeping.”

“Good. If he ate, he’ll be calmer.”

They find Clint in the security office, sitting in a chair with his feet on the desk, sipping a mug of coffee. Bucky leans over him to look at the the closed-circuit feed from Josef’s cell.

“You sure that glass is strong enough to hold him?” Steve asks.

Clint chuckles. “Yeah, we’re sure.”

“How do you know?”

“We’ve got a guy who, uh…gets a little smashy sometimes,” Clint says. “He’s much stronger than this thing.”

“I hope you’re right,” Bucky says. “I’m going to have to go inside the cell to talk to him, though. Where’s Tash?”

“Speak of the Devil,” Tash’s husky voice says behind him. “You need me to back you up?”

“Please. But you can’t come in with me. Your demon whammy works through walls, right?”

Tash laughs. “Demon whammy?”

“Sorry. Steve’s been calling it that.”

“No, I like it,” she says. “And yes, it does. I can only sedate him, though. I can’t get into his head at all. Trolls aren’t susceptible to mind control.”

“I know,” Bucky nods. “I only need you in case shit goes south. If he freaks out, he could literally tear me apart.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go in there,” Steve says uneasily. “I mean, he’ll be able to hear you and see you through the glass.”

“He won’t trust me if I won’t go near him. I have to try.”

“I won’t let the mean troll man hurt your boyfriend, Steve,” Tash says, giving him a reassuring smile.

“But don’t interfere unless you’re sure he’s really hurting me,” Bucky interjects. “He can be a little rough without meaning any harm by it.”

“Got it. Shall we?”

Steve stands watching apprehensively as they walk away around the corner, then turns his eyes to the closed-circuit feed. After a moment, he sees Bucky enter the larger chamber that holds the cell. It is recessed into the reinforced concrete on all sides but the front, which is a single, thick pane of glass from top to bottom. Low on the right side, there is a steel drawer through which items can be passed without the inmate being able to make contact with the person on the outside.

Bucky waves his hand to the camera and Clint presses a button. The glass wall slides open wide enough for him to slip in, then shuts behind him. The hulking, grey-skinned, humanoid creature named Josef is lying curled up against the wall, facing away from him. He’s wearing black trousers, but no shirt or boots. The trousers are rather tattered, but otherwise this is his standard uniform. It’s hard to find shoes and shirts to fit trolls.

When he stands to his full height, Josef is nearly eight feet tall, and is far stronger than even the iron-hard Winter Soldier. He’s not exceptionally fast, but he won’t need speed to kill him. Especially in this enclosed space. Bucky takes a breath to prepare himself, then arranges his face into the cold, focused soldier-expression.

“Josef,” he says firmly. “Prosnis´.”

Josef makes a rumbling sound and stirs in his sleep.

“Prosnis´, Josef,” Bucky says, letting his voice take on an edge of impatience. “Davay.”

This has the intended effect. The massive troll man twists around suddenly and leaps to his feet, snarling and lunging for him. Bucky stands his ground, looking him fiercely in the eye. His eyes are red-rimmed and bleary, and he looks disoriented. Just as his huge hands seize on Bucky’s neck and left arm, he pauses, finally focusing on the soldier’s face.

“Sol…dat,” he rumbles, in his slow, thick voice.

“Da, Josef,” Bucky says. “Eto ya.”

“Soldaaaaaat!” Josef wails, instantly bursting into tears.

Bucky gives a start, staggering under the weight of the creature, as he throws his massive arms around him and falls against him, bawling and gurgling incoherently on his shoulder.

“Tikho,” Bucky says, gingerly patting his back. “Hush. It’s ok. You’re ok.”

After a long moment, Josef lets go of him and sits down hard on the floor, covering his face with his gigantic hands.

Bucky kneels down to speak to him. “What happened to you? Do you remember how you got here?”

“Nyet,” Josef sobs. “Ne…ne znayu.”

“When the building collapsed, did it fall on you?”

Josef nods. “Da.”

“Gde starik?” Bucky asks. “Where is the old man?”

Josef’s big, black-haired head wags mournfully from side to side.

“You don’t know?”

“Mertv,” Josef says plaintively. “Mertv!”

“He’s dead?”

Josef nods slowly and begins weeping again.

“How do you know? Did you see him die?”

Josef continues to weep and makes no other answer.

“Josef, listen to me,” Bucky says, taking one of his big hands in both of his. “I need to know what happened to the old man. I know you’re sad and you’re scared, but I need you to be brave and help me, ok?”

Josef takes some slow, guttural breaths, then rasps, “S˝yelo.”

Bucky frowns. “Ate him? What do you mean? What ate him?”

He shakes his head again. “Ne znayu.”

“Fuck me,” Bucky mutters. “But, if you don’t know, then how do you know something ate him?”

“Videl eto.”

“You saw it? Saw what?”

Josef gestures indistinctly. “Chernaya veshch´.”

An odd chill creeps up Bucky’s spine. “A black thing?”

“Da.”

“What kind of thing, Josef? I don’t understand.”

“Ne znayu, ne znayu,” Josef groans, clutching his head with both hands and rocking back and forth. “Chernaya veshch´.”

“It’s ok,” Bucky says soothingly. “You did a good job. No more questions for now.”

Josef continues to sob and gurgle, so Bucky keeps patting his rough, grey-hued shoulder and speaking softly to him in Russian.

“How are you, are you hungry?” he asks, when he calms down again

“Da,” Josef sniffles.

“They gave you some food before. Did you like it?”

Josef shakes his head.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. How about this. You lie down and try to rest, and I’ll go get you some—”

“Nyet! Nyet!” Josef cries out in a sudden panic, seizing on Bucky with both hands.

Bucky gives a yelp of pain as he is squeezed like he’s caught in a hydraulic press. “Josef, please—you’re hurting me!”

Josef loosens his grip enough to avoid cracking his ribs, but he holds him fast, looking desperately into his face.

“Listen to me,” Bucky says, as calmly as he can. “I need you to let me go. I will only be away for a little while. If you can be good and brave for me, I’ll bring you back some krovyanka.”

“Krovyanka?” Josef asks, wavering.

“That’s right. As much as I can find.”

“Ya…boyus´.”

“You don’t have to be scared. No one is going to hurt you. Josef, look at me. I promise, no one will hurt you. I’ll come back very soon and I’ll bring your krovyanka.”

Josef hesitates for another moment, then lets him go with a desolate sigh. Bucky waves to the camera and slips out as quickly as he can. The moment he is outside, Josef breaks down bawling and curls back up on the floor. He looks so pathetic and forlorn, it’s easy to forget he’s a monster. But Bucky is a monster, too. Maybe a worse one, since he can conceal his nature from his prey. Poor Josef can’t even do that.

“Wow, Buck, you were great with him,” Steve beams, as they walk back into the security office. “You’d be such a good dad.” 

“Uh…thanks,” Bucky says, making a face.

“What was he was saying about the old man being eaten by a black thing?” Sam asks. “What the fuck does he mean?”

“Maybe the hydra,” Clint offers. “That was black.”

Tash shakes her head. “I doubt it. It didn’t get anywhere near the building, and he said he saw it happen.”

“Maybe he imagined it,” Steve posits. “He was knocked around pretty badly and stuck under the rubble. And if there was another creature on that island, I’d have found it.”

“He’s not very imaginative,” Bucky says. “And the old man is still unaccounted for. Did you guys get anything from the other Hydra guys you brought in?”

“Literally everything about their rap sheets, work experience, personal lives, and dietary restrictions,” Clint says, stifling a yawn. “Which means nothing helpful. They’re chilling out in general containment, if you’re feeling social.”

“I would like to see if I can get more from them,” Bucky says. “But I need to find some krovyanka for Josef first.”

“Do I want to know what that is?” Sam asks.

“It’s Russian blood sausage,” Steve says cheerfully. “It’s hard to get in the States, but there’s an Eastern European deli on tenth that makes it.”

Sam makes a disgusted face. “Why do you know that?”

“I like blood sausage,” Steve says. “What?”

“That’s gross, man,” Sam says, shaking his head.

“Yeah, ew,” Clint agrees.

“Oh come on, guys, I’m a wolf,” Steve laughs. “I eat stuff way grosser than that.”

“I guess that means you’re volunteering to get the krovyanka for Josef,” Bucky grins.

“Sure,” Steve nods. “How much?”

“Everything they have. And it wouldn’t hurt to ask if they have any tripe, offal…anything like that. Get it all.”

“Ok. You gonna talk to the Hydra guys, then?”

“Yeah. They probably don’t know much, but seeing me might jog their memories. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Steve says, leaning down to kiss him. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

Sam walks Bucky to the general containment area, where he can see the nineteen black-clad Hydra soldiers through the narrow window in the door. Some are sitting at the tables, and a few are sprawled out on bunks, chatting with one another. The door buzzes open, and most of them look up idly. When they see the fierce-eyed, leather clad Winter Soldier, the mood in the room alters drastically.

Nineteen men leap to their feet and stand at attention, gazing at him ash-white with terror, hardly daring to breathe. He steps into the center of the room, looking them over, one by one. He instantly recognizes one of his handlers among them. A dark-haired, muscular man in his late thirties, which is a bit older than most of these children. He’d been on the helicopter that had borne the soldier and the witch back to New York on their assignment to kill the wolf.

“You, Rumlow,” he says, in has flat, level soldier-voice. “Come here.”

The man steps over and stands at attention, staring straight ahead.

“What have you told them.”

“Nothing, sir,” Rumlow says. “I mean—no essential intel, sir.”

“And you think you know what kind of intel counts as essential,” Bucky sneers.

“No, sir,” Rumlow corrects himself hastily. “I only meant—”

“Shut up. These men are all guards and grunts. How did you wind up with them?”

“I was sent with the guards to scout the perimeter when Shield attacked the base, sir. We were outside the fortress when it collapsed.”

“Good. You’ll be of more use to me than they will.”

“Sir…if I may,” Rumlow says, venturing a glance at his face. “What are you doing here? Why don’t they have you locked up, too?”

Bucky grasps him around the back of the neck and pulls him close to whisper in his ear. “I made a deal with them and the fools are letting me go free. I will get you out of here, but I need to get back to the old man. Where is he?”

“The old man? He was—”

Rumlow breaks off and staggers suddenly, catching hold of Bucky’s shoulders to steady himself. For the briefest moment, the back of the man’s neck feels icy cold, even colder than his vampire flesh. Bucky yanks his hand away and looks at it, but nothing appears to be amiss, and the sensation has already faded. He looks back up into Rumlow’s face. He is drawn and pale, and there are beads of sweat on his forehead.

“What’s wrong with you?” Bucky demands, shaking him off.

Rumlow blinks dazedly. “I don’t—I don’t know sir. I got…sick all the sudden. I need…to lie down…”

As he mumbles these last words, his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses. Bucky catches him and drops him on a nearby cot, where he lies shivering and twitching. Just then, a wave of nausea washes over him. He turns on his heel and exits the containment area swiftly.

“What the fuck happened?” Sam asks, rushing to his side as he leans against the wall. “You ok?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky pants. “That man, Rumlow, said he was sick, then he fell on me and passed out, and I started feeling sick too. There was probably some kind of snare enchantment on him to stop him talking. It might kill him. Get medical personnel in there right now.”

“What about you?”

“I’m fine. It’s going away already. He needs medics ASAP.”

Sam dashes back to the security office as Bucky straightens himself up and takes a few deep breaths, out of habit. He can’t imagine why the fuck the enchantment wasn’t triggered when they questioned the man before. Unless he’d been about to tell him something actually useful regarding the old man’s whereabouts. Of fucking course.

He watches as medical personnel come hurrying down the hall and bustle into the lockup, accompanied by armed Shield agents. They emerge again in a very few minutes, bearing the still-unconscious Rumlow on a stretcher. Bucky hears them saying ‘renal failure’ and something about endocrine shock as they carry him away toward the infirmary. Ugly enchantment.

Sam steps out last and stays behind with Bucky. “I don’t suppose you want to try your luck with the others.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not tonight. They’ll all have to be scanned for arcane traps before I try again. Fucking Hydra never trusted their own people. I should’ve thought of that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sam shrugs. “These dudes knew what they were getting into when they joined up with the bad guys.”

“Fuck, I am so fucking thirsty,” Bucky laughs. “Look, my fangs are out and everything.”

“Yeah well, keep your teeth to yourself, Dorkula,” Sam smirks. “I’m not on the menu. Good news, though. Your boyfriend’s back with a whole load of disgusting shit to feed your troll buddy.”

“Good. Keep me posted on Rumlow’s condition, ok? I think he might know something, and that’s what triggered the enchantment. I want to talk to him as soon as he wakes up.”

“Sure. Hey, where are you on the Loki situation?”

“Nowhere, yet. Steve and I are going to meet with him tomorrow night.”

“You’re taking the wolf?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows. “Uh…any chance you want me to come, too? You know, for extra backup?”

“Fuck off, bird,” Bucky glowers. “Steve is not going to piss an actual circle around me to fend off my ex-boyfriend.”

“Alright fine, Mr. No-fun,” Sam pouts. “But if he does and I’m not there to see it, I’ll never forgive you. I hope you can live with that.”

 

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

 

 

 

 

Black boots, black jeans, black v-neck, leather jacket. It’s warm, but he feels in need of a little extra armor tonight. He’d wear his actual soldier armor, but that would certainly raise questions that he does not want to address with Loki.

Steve is cheerful and talkative during the cab ride to the posh, Tribeca high-rise, because Steve is always cheerful and talkative. Bucky is morose and silent, because going to meet Loki on his own turf is not a prospect he relishes. And because he prefers to be morose and silent, anyway.

In the palatial lobby of Loki’s building, he gives his name to the uniformed doorman at the desk, who eyes them suspiciously as he picks up the telephone. He speaks a few words, then, apparently having received confirmation of Mr. Winter’s expected arrival, leads them to an elevator that requires a code to access, and only travels to one floor. This impresses Steve to no end, which annoys Bucky nearly as much as the fact that Loki is the kind of asshole with a private elevator to his penthouse.

As they step out of the elevator into the foyer of Loki’s ostentatiously enormous dwelling, Bucky’s lip curls at the glossy, black, marble floors, the posh, black, sheepskin rugs, and the black leather sofas and chairs. The entire place is composed of sharp angles, slick surfaces, and high-contrast lighting, to enhance the austerity and drama. Even the walls are covered in some black, intentionally-roughhewn stone.

The details in which the devil lurks are the ornate touches here and there, all designed to project power and luxury. A white, marble statue of a naked youth on a pedestal in one corner. A huge, black, wrought-iron chandelier, with black crystal pendants and lights that flicker like candle flames. A coffee table that appears to be carved from a single, massive slab of dark-grey granite. A bookshelf full of leather-bound first editions. 

At the far end of the room is a bar, upon which Loki is leaning, engaged in conversation with a thin, sullen-looking vampire woman with white-blonde hair, who is wearing a crisp, snow-white pants suit. He looks up suddenly, as if he hadn’t expected guests, and asks the woman to please excuse them. She vanishes down a hallway to somewhere within the recesses of the penthouse, without bothering to cast a glance in their direction

“What have we here?” Loki says, with one of his cunning, unreadable smiles as they approach. “Winter, you did not tell me your… _friend_ was a wolf.”

“He is,” Bucky says, refusing the bait. “This is Steve. Steve, this is Loki.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Loki,” Steve says, holding out his hand. “Steve Rogers.”

“Steve Rogers, is it?” Loki says, with a barely-detectable sneer of derision in his voice, as he shakes Steve’s hand.

“That’s right,” Steve says. “I don’t have a wolf name, so I’m plain old Steve. Loki is an interesting vampire name, though.”

“Ah. Thank you,” Loki says, uncertain how to handle this riposte. “I am rather…fond of it. May I offer you a drink?”

“Sure, thanks so much,” Steve says affably. “Ice water?”

Bucky suppresses a smile as Loki dips his chin stiffly, and steps around the bar to procure the beverage. He hadn’t expected the offer of a drink to be accepted, and he certainly hadn’t been prepared for Steve’s imperturbably easygoing manner.

It is extremely amusing to Bucky to see the socially dexterous vampire so easily thrown off by sweet, sunny Steve, but Loki is vicious when cornered. His next move will be to take a sharper jab, hoping to regain the conversational advantage. Bucky can only hope he doesn’t overextend his reach and touch a nerve. For all his diplomatic facility, Loki is ill-equipped to deal with a man like Steve.

“Here you are,” Loki smiles, sliding the glass across the bar. He gestures to the arrangement of black leather furniture across the room. “Shall we sit, gentlemen?”

Bucky and Steve seat themselves on the sofa, and Loki takes an easy chair facing them, across the coffee table. Steve picks up a little stone coaster and sets his glass on it without being asked, at which Bucky is forced to stifle another smile.

“So, Steve Rogers,” Loki begins. “I assume that by bringing you here, Winter intends to signal that anything that can be said between he and I can also be said in your presence.”

Steve smiles placidly and sips his water. Loki blinks at him for a moment, then looks at Bucky.

“Is that correct, Winter?” he asks.

“It is,” Bucky nods. “Steve is my partner. We have no secrets from each other.”

“Very well,” Loki laughs. “Though, I suppose your partner could have answered the question just as easily.”

“You didn’t ask me a question,” Steve says tranquilly. “You said you made an assumption about what Winter intended to signal to you. It’s not my place to confirm or deny assumptions regarding my partner’s intentions.”

Loki’s smile freezes, but he dips his head courteously. “Indeed. I apologize. I shall attempt to make myself more clear in the future.”

“No need to apologize,” Steve replies, setting down his empty glass. “I’m not offended.”

“Ah, then all is well,” Loki says awkwardly. “Forgive me, but when you say partner…”

“Romantic partner,” Bucky answers. “Steve is my mate. We’re in love.”

“Is that so,” Loki says, leaning forward with a keen gleam in his ice-blue eyes. “A vampire mated to a wolf. Now, that is a rare thing, indeed. You must tell me how this came about.”

“I wasn’t a wolf, when we met,” Steve says. “I was just a twelve-year-old kid. I almost drowned and he saved me.”

Loki arches a black eyebrow. “You were a child, when you met Winter?”

“It’s not the way it sounds,” Bucky cuts in defensively. “We weren’t romantically involved when he was a kid. I’m not a fucking pervert.”

“Well, I was in love with _him_ ,” Steve corrects. “But, yeah, obviously it wasn’t mutual back then. We didn’t even talk to each other. Then I grew up, became a wolf, and eventually I found him again. After all those years.”

Loki’s lips curl in a patronizing smile. “Come now, it can’t have been so very many years. How old are you, Steve? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

“Close,” Steve grins. “I’ll be one-hundred and one years old in July.”

Loki sits silent, gazing at him for a moment. “I see there is more to you than meets the eye, Steve Rogers. I shall have to be more careful about making assumptions when it comes to you.”

“That’s a good habit, no matter who you’re dealing with,” Steve says, still smiling genially. “But your time is probably valuable, so maybe we should get down to brass tacks sooner rather than later.”

“I do adore that American directness,” Loki replies drily. “Here are the brass tacks, then, as you say. I have reason to believe that an interested party means to move against me. Winter and I established our joint territories together, and have been allies for a long time. I have asked for his help dealing with this threat. As of now, I await his answer.”

“I haven’t decided what to do yet,” Bucky says. “You haven’t even told me what the threat is.”

“Yes, regarding that,” Loki says, steepling his fingers. “I am afraid the matter is more complicated than it originally appeared. Particularly in light of your connection with Steve. You see…the interested party—or I should say, parties—is a pack of wolves.”

Bucky falls back against the sofa cushions and rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands. “God fucking damn it, Loki. How? How the fuck did this happen? Vampire territory intersects and overlaps with the territory of wolves all the time without problems. How did you manage to get a pack of them interested in ousting you?”

“It is, as I said, more complicated than that,” Loki says, not meeting his gaze. “These wolves are planning to move against me, only I may have slightly misstated the reason.”

“Imagine the shit out of that,” Bucky sighs. “What’s the real reason?”

“It may have less to do with acquiring my territory, and more to do with…myself, personally.”

“Oh, I see,” Bucky replies, with swiftly rising wrath. “Then my answer is fuck you. I’m not getting into a fight with a pack of wolves for you over some personal dispute. As you may have noticed, my boyfriend is a fucking wolf!”

“Winter, you are aware that a threat to me is a threat to my territory,” Loki argues. “So why not help me, and keep the bloodshed to a minimum.”

“It’ll be yours,” Bucky spits. “What the fuck do I care?”

“Because other vampires will smell the blood in the water,” Steve says. “They’ll swarm into Brooklyn and Manhattan looking to tear their own chunk out of the carcass.”

“Your wolf mate is correct, Winter,” Loki says. “If I am removed, whether it be by wolves or other vampires, the same chaos will ensue. There will be a power vacuum that will destabilize the boroughs and pose a legitimate threat to your territory. You will end up fighting, either way.”

Steve nods. “Not to mention, a turf war that size would mean a lot of innocent people caught in the crossfire.”

Bucky stares at him in frank disbelief. “Steve…you’re not actually suggesting we do this, are you? How can you—why would you want to get involved?”

“Exactly for the reason I said,” Steve says. “Innocent people will die.”

“But you’re a wolf!” Bucky says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “We’re vampires! You can’t side with vampires against your own kind, Steve, it just isn’t done!”

“It’s not about kinds, Buck,” Steve says staunchly. “It’s about doing the thing that is the most right, and helps the most people.”

“We’re monsters, Steve. How is helping us doing the right thing for the most people?”

“Because it’s all interconnected, like any biome in nature,” Steve explains. “You and Loki are predators, but you save far more people than you kill, just by holding the territory you do. You’re both lynchpins in the ecosystem. Without you to keep the others in check, we could be looking at human casualties in the thousands.”

Loki watches this interchange keenly, observing what is passing between his guests, as well as the manner in which the words are spoken. How very fascinating. There appears to be much more to this wolf than meets the eye, indeed (or the nostrils, for god’s sake, he stinks like seven devils). Despite his offensive scent, however, instinct tells Loki he certainly doesn’t want Steve Rogers as an enemy. If he can be tamed, this wolf may even make a formidable ally.

“It might not come to fighting, anyway,” Steve is saying. “There may be some way to negotiate with these wolves. Make some kind of peaceful agreement with them.”

“I admire the sentiment, Steve, but I highly doubt diplomacy will be a possibility,” Loki puts in. “The wolves in question are not so reasonable as you seem to be. They are vicious, wild…little more than savages, even in human form.”

“I guess we won’t know until we find them,” Steve says. “But Winter and I can’t decide how to proceed without all the facts. What happened between you and them?”

“Some years ago, during my travels abroad, I ran afoul of their leader,” Loki says, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “An absolute brute. Boorish, ignorant, uncouth. During our interchange, I violated some custom of theirs that I did not know existed, and he took profound offense. I refused the restitution he attempted to impose upon me, which was extreme and inhumane, and some…heated words were exchanged before I escaped. He vowed he would come after me, but he knew nothing of my place of residence, nor even my proper name, so I believed myself to be safe. It appears that he has found me. His pack has been sighted in New York.”

“And you’re sure he’s here for you, and this isn’t a coincidence?” Steve asks.

“I am not, but it matters little why he is here. Sooner or later he will have news of me, or happen upon my scent by chance. He swore he would hunt me down and I do not doubt his resolve in holding to that oath.”

“I see,” Steve says. “But why didn’t you just tell Winter all of this in the first place? Why lie about the nature of the threat?”

“I fear I can be something of a slave to my pride,” Loki says contritely. “I was not entirely forthright with Winter, because I found myself in the difficult and humiliating position of being…afraid. I am, in truth, afraid of this wolf. I did not wish Winter to know it, if I could enlist his help without revealing it.”

“Then why tell the truth now, Loki?” Bucky demands. “Do you actually expect me to believe you’ve miraculously seen the error of your ways?”

“Nothing like that, I assure you,” Loki replies, with an acidic smile. “I simply did not expect you to bring your own wolf. I have learned the hard way that lying to a wolf is a fool’s game.”

“That’s true,” Steve agrees. “It takes a lot to get a lie past our noses.”

“So, you see, I am in a dire situation,” Loki says to Bucky. “I would not have come to you otherwise, as our history is rather…fraught.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “That’s a funny way of saying you tried to kill me.”

“It was a misunderstanding.”

“It was a guillotine.”

“I never intended it to actually kill you, Winter. How was I to know it had been blessed by a priest?”

“I am not having this conversation with you again, Loki! You knew exactly what you were doing!”

“A guillotine?” Steve asks, bewildered. “But wouldn’t you have to get into—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bucky interrupts. “It didn’t work and I’m alive. As alive as I get, anyway. Can we just focus on this wolf thing, please?”

“Yes, let’s do that,” Loki says. “There is something you must know about the wolf who leads this pack. He is…extremely powerful. I have never encountered another like him. His wolf form is well above the usual size. And he can control his transformation. As far as I know, he is the only wolf who can.”

“I can,” Steve says flatly.

Loki begins to laugh, then sees that Steve is in deadly earnest. He swallows hard, somehow managing to turn even whiter. “You…you what?”

“I can control it. And my wolf form is a lot larger than other wolves, too.”

“But how is this possible,” Loki breathes. “How can there be two such wolves?”

“There were more of us. My whole pack could change at will. They weren’t as big as me when they changed, and the transformation was a lot harder for them, but we could all do it.”

“How extraordinary. But you speak of them in the past tense.”

“They’re dead. All of them. Killed by Nazi fanatics in a German prison camp.”

“I am terribly sorry, Steve,” Loki says, lowering his eyes respectfully. “I did not mean to prod such a painful wound.”

“I know,” Steve says. “Is there anything else you can tell us about this wolf?”

“I met him in Norway, though I do not know if that is his country of origin. He is a wolf, so you may extrapolate his personality from that—no offense. He is also rather large in his human form. Blonde, grey eyes, wears a beard and long hair like the barbarian he is. His name is Thor.”

“His wolf name is Thor?” Steve frowns. “Like, a Norse myth name like yours?”

“That is his real name, as far as I know.”

“Huh,” Steve says thoughtfully. “You seem to have a coincidental name theme going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you and Winter are both James, and you both have surnames beginning with a B. Then this wolf is named after a Norse god, just like you are. It’s kind of weird, is all.”

“I suppose” Loki shrugs. “It does not seem significant to me. James was the second most common name in the English language when I was born, and Thor is a very common name in Scandinavia. I do not know his surname. If he has one, I never heard it.”

“So, we’re looking for a big, stupid, blonde, extra-powerful werewolf named Thor,” Bucky says irritably. “Perfect. He and Steve will probably meet, adore each other, and become best fucking friends. Problem solved.”

“Oh, that would be so nice!” Steve beams. “I’d love to have wolf friends again. I mean—obviously, if they’re as bad as Loki says, they could hurt a lot of innocent people here in New York. We’re probably going to need some backup.”

“I assure you, they are every bit as barbarous as I have described them,” Loki says. “But, if I may ask, what do you mean backup?”

“We have some friends who might be willing to help,” Bucky says. “I’m not sure it’s wise to get them involved, though. Steve and I will have to talk about it.”

Loki tilts his head inquisitively. “Did these friends, by any chance, have anything to do with that weapon you carry?”

“No. And this is a prosthesis, not a weapon.”

“Come, now, Winter,” Loki says, with one of his sly, serpentine laughs. “I am no fool. I know a weapon when I see one. The power in it is palpable. I can feel it from here.”

“It’s still a prosthetic replacement for a missing limb,” Bucky says icily. “I notice you didn’t ask how I lost my arm, though.”

“Would you have told me?”

“No,” Bucky growls, getting abruptly to his feet. “And now this conversation is over.”

“Hey, before we go, we should exchange numbers,” Steve says, as he and Loki rise as well. “We’ll probably to need to communicate regularly.”

“Agreed,” Loki says, sliding his phone from his breast pocket and handing it to Steve.

Steve hands him his own phone and they type in their contact information, then Loki walks them to the elevator door.

“I cannot thank you enough for hearing me out, both of you,” he says, shaking their hands. “Steve, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Winter, it is always good to see you.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Steve says cordially. “We’ll be in touch soon.”

Bucky nods his silent goodbye as the elevator doors slide closed, then stands looking sullenly at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, wrapping an arm around him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t have a say in how we handle this.”

“God damn it,” Bucky sighs. “You always knowing exactly how I’m feeling makes it really hard to sulk and use the silent treatment when I’m mad at you.”

“I’m so sorry, Buck. You have every right to be mad. I get single-minded when I see what I think is the right way to do something, and I tend to steamroll anyone in my path.”

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s ok. I know you’re right and we have to help him. I just hate it because he’s awful, and I want to be grumpy about it.”

“You’re really cute when you’re grumpy,” Steve smiles.

“I know I’m cute, I’ve seen me,” Bucky grumbles. “Do we really have to get Shield involved, though?”

“If their leader is anywhere near as dangerous as me, we’ve got no choice. He and his pack could be a huge threat to the city, even if they’re not after Loki.”

“Do you think he was even telling the truth about all that?”

“There’s definitely something he’s still hiding, but from what I could tell, he believed everything he told us. And he’s genuinely afraid of this wolf. Shield will likely have a file on him, though, which will help us figure out how to handle him.”

“Fine. We have to go there anyway. I need to check on Josef and Rumlow,” Bucky says, then he sighs and flops dramatically against Steve’s chest. “I hate everything. Why can’t I just not have to do things.”

“You ok?” Steve asks. “You’re crankier than usual.”

“Talking to Loki makes me fucking cranky. Also I have the thirst really bad and it’s giving me a headache.”

Steve looks down at him with a worried expression. “I just gave you some blood yesterday. It usually lasts a couple of days at least. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel great, now that you mention it. Maybe it’s stress? I have a fuckload of shit going on right now.”

“Maybe,” Steve says doubtfully. “You should let Wanda take a look at you, though. Just in case.”

“Boo,” Bucky pouts. “I don’t want to go to that mean witch. She’ll poke around in my body with her stupid blood magic and tell me what’s wrong with me.”

“That’s what we want her to do, Buck,” Steve laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You should be happy there’s someone who can. It’s not like you can see a doctor.”

“I see what this is,” Bucky grouses, as they exit the building. “It’s a conspiracy to keep me from feeling like shit. You and the witch are in cahoots.”

“Yep,” Steve chirps. “We’re definitely cahooting. We almost got away with it, too.”

“Well, the jig is up now, Rogers. I have unraveled your scheme and I won’t fall into your trap.”

“You will if you want some more blood, fussypants,” Steve says, as he waves to hail a cab.

“I can get blood on my own, you dumb wolf,” Bucky retorts. “I don’t even need yours.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

“Ok…listen. I may have spoken hastily,” Bucky says, as they climb into the cab. “Let’s just all agree that we said some things we didn’t mean, and move forward.”

“I agree that you said some things you didn’t mean,” Steve laughs. “You want that blood now, or what?”

“Yes, please,” Bucky says sweetly. “Also I love you.”

“I know,” Steve says, pulling up his jacket sleeve to expose his wrist. “I love you, too.”

 

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

 

 

 

 

While Bucky is in the basement checking on Josef, Steve goes upstairs to speak with a woman named Agent Maria Hill, who Clint and Sam tell him is in charge of Shield’s werewolf division. This is not a division that employs werewolf agents, since there are no wolves in Shield, but a division devoted to tracking them and dealing with them when they pose too much danger to human populations.

Steve can’t help but feel a pang of sadness for this fact. His kind can be vicious and dangerous, it’s true, but it’s mostly not their fault. They can’t control the transformation like he can, and most of the time they’re human, just like everyone else. Life must be really hard for them.

“Captain Rogers,” Agent Hill says, standing up to greet him. “Agent Maria Hill. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

“That’s very kind of you, Agent Hill,” Steve says, shaking her hand. “So, this is the werewolf division.”

“Yes, sir. Our function is primarily to study and monitor werewolves, but we are also equipped to contain potential threats when we have to.”

“I guess you guys probably have a file on me. Or am I too new to the wolf thing to have gotten on your radar yet.”

“We do, sir,” Agent Hill laughs. “I can pull it up for you, if you’d like.”

“Oh, that’s ok,” Steve grins. “I know all about me already. I’m looking for information on a werewolf named Thor. I don’t have a last name, but he might be from Norway.”

“Sure, I can help you with that,” Agent Hill says, sitting before her monitor. “Please, have a seat. Can I have my assistant bring you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Steve says, taking the chair across the desk.

He looks around the office as she sets about calling up the information he requested. There is a potted plant near the window, which is in severe need of watering, and there are large, framed photo prints of a beautiful waterfall and some interesting rock formations hung on the walls.

“Those are great pictures,” he says. “Where were those taken?”

“Thank you,” Agent hill smiles. “I took those myself, actually. The waterfall is from Starved Rock State Park and the bluffs are from Shawnee National Park.”

“Oh, are you from Illinois?” 

“I sure am. Chicago. I do have a file for a wolf named Thor in Norway, but it’s no longer extant. Meaning the wolf in question is deceased.”

“Oh,” Steve frowns. “When?”

“Looks like February, 2006.”

“Hm. Definitely not our guy. That’s the only Thor you have on file?”

“I’m afraid so. I mean, I have a whole database full of stories about _the_ Thor, but I’m sure you don’t have time to waste brushing up on your ancient werewolf mythology.”

“The Thor?” Steve asks, confused. “What do you mean?”

“The Norse god of thunder.”

“Why would the Norse god of thunder have anything to do with werewolf mythology?”

“Right, sorry,” she says, with an apologetic smile. “I’m buried in this stuff all day and I forget it’s not exactly common knowledge. There was a small ancient sect that held the belief that Thor had displeased Odin, and had been banished to Midgard, which is Earth, where he was supposed to redeem himself by learning humility and protecting the people of Midgard.

He was stripped of his power, but given the ability to take the form of a wolf for the defense of humans. According to some accounts, his most loyal companions chose to join him in exile, and were also given wolf forms. Some of the legends say he fulfilled his exile and returned to Asgard, but some hold that he grew to love Midgard and ultimately chose to stay. Odin supposedly gave him back his hammer, but allowed him to keep his wolf form.

I know these ancient stories aren’t very useful for keeping track of real-life wolves. We study them because having a working knowledge of cultural mythologies and historical beliefs helps our agents understand the way humans all over the world interact with the idea of werewolves, and how to talk to civilians who think they’ve seen one.”

“That makes sense. I’m curious, though. If it was a small sect that believed that stuff about Thor, why is there so much mythology?”

“Well, they were small but tenaciously devoted. Their beliefs persisted through the Anglo-Scandinavian Wars, the Norman conquest, and into the modern era. There are still some holdouts in Norway. Even a few who claim they’ve seen him.”

“But you don’t believe they have.”

“Officially, no,” Agent Hill says. “A big part of this job is separating mythology from supernatural fact. There are a lot of stories about Thor, but they follow traditional mythological structure, accounts of his appearances conflict with other accounts, and there is no archeological or other physical evidence.”

“What about unofficially?”

“Unofficially? I think they’re very good stories, and I would love for them to be true. But the evidence says they’re just that. Stories.”

“What do the legends say about his wolf form?” Steve asks. “Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Well, they say it was gigantic. Like, the size of a full grown African lion. And they say he could transform at will, and was able to understand the speech of men while he was a wolf.”

“And his role as a wolf was defending humanity? From what?”

“Oh, the standard mythological baddies. Dragons, trolls, vampires, other werewolves. All that fun stuff.”

“Hm,” Steve says, sitting back in his chair. “So, hypothetically, if the mythological Thor had been around during say…a world war…he wouldn’t have taken part in it?”

“No, that would’ve been strictly forbidden. He wasn’t allowed to intervene in disputes between human nations. That would’ve given him far too much influence on the world. He could potentially have set himself up as the ruler of Midgard, and that would’ve been directly contrary to what Odin wanted his exile to accomplish.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Steve says, with rueful smile. “We probably could’ve used a guy like that on our side when we were fighting the Nazis.”

“Well, we did, Captain Rogers,” Agent Hill says. “You were the guy like that on our side. The program that created you was directly inspired by the Thor wolf myths.”

Steve stares at her. “What do you mean?”

Her smile fades and is replaced by an expression just as confused as Steve’s. “Wait, what do _you_ mean, sir?”

“I mean that this is the first time I’ve ever heard anything like that. I’d never even heard of these Thor wolf myths, let alone any connection between them and the Howling Commandos.”

“But…how is that possible, sir? They must’ve explained to you what you were volunteering for.”

“I had the general idea, but it was a little before the era of informed consent. They didn’t tell us much of anything, except you’re going to be werewolves and kill Nazis.”

“Maybe I’d better pull up that file for you, after all,” Agent Hill says. “And I do apologize, sir. I didn’t know you were unaware of the details.”

“It’s ok, Agent Hill. It’s my own fault for never looking into it. I only knew what Erskine told me. I trusted him, and that was enough for me.”

“If it means anything to you, sir, I think your trust was well placed. Dr. Erskine was a great man. Of all the attempts the US government made to engineer supernatural soldiers, his was the only successful program, and the only one that didn’t have a single man die in the process.”

“I wasn’t aware that there had been other attempts,” Steve says, his brow furrowing. “I didn’t know men died trying to do what we did.”

“Soldiers who volunteered to give their lives for their country, just like you, sir. I’m sure none of them would regret their sacrifice.”

“No, you’re…you’re right. Erskine always told me he believed in people, not governments, and that it was good men, not perfect soldiers who would win the war. I guess I just wish we hadn’t lost so many good men doing it.”

“So do I, sir,” Agent Hill says. “But without you, we would’ve lost a lot more of them. So, this is your file. I’ll give you some space. Just let me know when you’re through, ok?”

Steve nods. “Thank you Agent Hill.”

She turns the monitor around so he can view the information, then steps out, shutting the door behind her. Steve takes a deep breath before he looks at the screen.

The first few pages are scanned documents from his old military records. He can’t help smiling at the photograph of himself before the wolf treatment. So scrawny and scrappy, and determined to get himself killed for what he believed in.

“Don’t worry, you dumb kid,” he says to the picture. “It’s gonna be real bad for you for a while, but you’ll survive. And you will find him again, one day. Just so you know, he’s worth it.”

He wipes away an unexpected tear as he scrolls down through the file. Most of it is pretty dull, being hour-by-hour accounts of his daily training activities and records of his physical health (overall consensus: Rogers is still alive and no, we can’t explain it). Finally, he comes to the section marked ‘Erskine Formulation’.

In dry, official-sounding terms, the file says that Dr. Erskine struggled with the formulation for years, and was on the verge of losing funding, when he took a trip to Norway to confer with some colleagues there. He remained for two weeks, and when he returned, he had a breakthrough. This supports Agent Hill’s assertion that the Thor wolf myths were the source of his inspiration. The formulation was completed and ready to be tested within three months of his return.

Apparently, Erskine saw and rejected more than a thousand candidates, which Steve had not known. The Army was getting fed up with the delay and was preparing to impose a candidate upon him, when he presented one of his own. A young man from Brooklyn, New York, named Steven Grant Rogers, who had made multiple unsuccessful attempts to enlist in the Army, and had been rejected due to a laundry list of health problems.

The Army told Erskine he was out of his mind, but he was so dead-set on Rogers, he threatened to walk and take his formulation with him if they didn’t agree to his choice. Which Steve also had not known. The Army capitulated, probably expecting the experiment to kill the kid and rid them of his embarrassing presence. The result, however, was to be a world-shaking success.

The formulation used on the rest of the Howling Commandos was purported to be identical to that used on Rogers, but his wolf form was markedly different from theirs, as was his ability to control it. The formulation was successful enough, however, and was applauded by the Army, despite the fact that Erskine was never able to reproduce the exact results he got with Rogers.

Steve deeply regrets that he hadn’t. If his friends’ results had been like his, they would probably still be alive. He’s extremely curious about those Thor myths, now, but he’s been in here for an hour, and he shouldn’t keep Agent Hill out of her office any longer than is necessary. They’ll probably be a bit more than a light read.

He steps out of the office and finds her working at a desk he can only assume to belongs to her assistant, and asks if she’d mind if he stopped by again soon, to take a look at those Thor myths. She explains that they’re not classified, so he can access them from any Shield networked computer. After a sincere expression of thanks for her help, he bids her farewell and goes in search of Bucky.

Loki had believed everything he’d said about this wolf Thor, so it’s not that he was just repeating the mythology to them. But maybe he had been more inclined to believe it because of his exposure to the the people still adhering to it while he was in Norway.

It’s also quite possible that Loki’s Thor is responsible for feeding these beliefs himself. It’s not unimaginable that a person would use a deeply ingrained cultural icon as a way to legitimize their own position. Maybe even to get away with murder.

He thinks these things over as he rides the elevator down to the basement security sector, where he finds Tash in the office, watching the closed-circuit feed from Josef’s cell.

“Hey, goldilocks,” she smiles, as he steps in. “Look how adorable your boyfriend is with his troll buddy. I’ve been watching them for over an hour. It’s the sweetest thing ever, I swear.”

Steve looks at the monitor, which shows Bucky, sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing the massive troll-man. They appear to be deeply engrossed in their conversation, but it’s all in Russian, which Steve does not understand.

“What are they talking about?” he asks.

“They’re playing a Russian children’s game. It’s sort of like a nursery rhyme call and response. Winter is the parent, and he says the rhyme to a certain point, then the child, Josef, says the following phrase. If he gets it right, they move on to the next one.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Wow, Bucky knows a nursery rhyme game?”

“I know!” Tash laughs. “I would never have believed he was capable of this kind of patience, either. He’s always such a surly little ball of spikes.”

“He likes to think he is. He’s all soft and gooey in the middle, though. And he was really sweet when he was the soldier.”

“Well, except for all the stabbing and shooting.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t want to do those things. They forced him. They made him a slave and they hurt him. For decades. Then when he finally got his life back, they dragged him back in and cut off his fucking arm, for fuck’s sake, what kind of—”

“Hey,” Tash interrupts softly, with a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got your brights on.”

Steve pauses and closes his eyes, performing his meditative breathing exercise until he feels his fangs retract.

“Sorry about that,” he sighs, dropping into a chair. “It happens whenever I start thinking about what he’s been through. And knowing he remembers it all now…he must be in so much pain. I don’t know how he even functions.”

“He’s stronger than you think. Your vampire boyfriend may have a soft center, but he’s made of sterner stuff than most men, supernatural or not. Besides, as long as he has you, he’ll be ok.”

“And I’ll be ok, as long as I have him. I hope he understands how much I love him.”

“Steve, literally everyone understands how much you love him,” Tash smirks. “You never stop talking about it.”

“Well, why should I,” Steve says resolutely, crossing his arms on his chest. “I’m in love with the most amazing man in the world and he loves me, too. It’s worth bragging about.”

“It really is,” Tash laughs. “Plus, it’s fun to see how embarrassed Winter gets.”

“I know, that’s pretty much the whole reason I do it,” Steve grins. “I can’t help it. He’s so cute when he’s all grumpy and flustered about being loved.”

“Look. He got Josef to lie down,” she says, nodding to the monitor. “Hopefully he’ll go to sleep. It’s awful watching him sobbing in there. I hope Fury decides what to do with him, soon.”

“It seems especially cruel, since he’s not able to understand what’s happening to him. Hey, what’s going on with the Hydra guy who got sick the other night? Uh…Rumlow.”

“Let me see,” Tash says, tapping at her keyboard. “Rumlow, Brock. He’s still in the medbay, under guard. His condition has stabilized, but he hasn’t regained consciousness. Oh, wow, he’s lucky to be alive. It looks like his entire endocrine system started failing. He was healthy otherwise, no history of anything like that, so they’re thinking it was an arcane trap, like Winter guessed.”

“What about the other guys?”

“Scans came up clean. Winter says Rumlow was in a much higher security-clearance position, though, so it doesn’t seem implausible he’d have an extra safeguard in place.”

“What position?”

“According to the Winter Soldier, he was one of his handlers.”

“Oh,” Steve blinks. “So he was in deep, then. I thought all the survivors were low-level grunts.”

“He was trying to slip by as one, but Winter spotted him right away. Good thing, too. The handlers are the guys who were with him when he was blowing up buses full of civilians in Venezuela and tearing out international aid workers’ throats in Kosovo. Rumlow is a bad guy, and he was perfectly aware of what he was doing.”

“He’s lucky I didn’t know that when I found him,” Steve growls, bristling up again. “He never would have come out of those woods.”

“Ooh, you’re sexy when you get wolfy,” Tash says, pretending to shiver. “No wonder Winter’s so crazy about you.”

Steve proceeds to instantly flush bright pink, which makes Tash laugh and ruffle his blonde hair, which makes him blush even harder, and try to hide his face in his shirt while she pinches his cheek. Bucky steps into the doorway just then, and observes the scene with an amused smirk, till Steve looks up and reaches for him.

“She’s bullying me, Buck,” he pleads. “Don’t just stand there, help me!”

“Tash, are you picking on my boyfriend?” Bucky asks, seating himself on Steve’s knee.

“I absolutely am,” Tash says. “Can you blame me, though? Look how pink he turns.”

“You look like a big, blonde apple, Steve. What did she do to you?”

“I called him sexy and messed up his hair,” Tash answers. “And I pinched his cheek.”

Bucky narrows his eyes menacingly. “Why don’t you back off my man, hellspawn.”

Tash sticks out her tongue. “Why don’t you make me, bloodsucker.”

“Well, mostly cause you could immolate me before I got a chance,” Bucky says, biting his lip thoughtfully. “And also cause you’re gay and you wouldn’t want him anyway.”

“I guess those are pretty good reasons,” Tash concedes. “But I am disappointed at your unwillingness to defend his honor with your life.”

“Well, we can’t all be fighters,” Bucky shrugs. “What’s the status on Rumlow?”

“Still unconscious. I’ll text you when he wakes up if you’re not on base. So, what did you guys want to talk to me about? I hope you didn’t make me kick the security guys out of here because you like hanging around in this office.”

“We’ve got a developing situation,” Steve says. “Ow, Buck, you’re hurting my leg. Stop wiggling around. Uh…oh yeah, a developing situation. There’s a vampire Winter knows, I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Loki?”

“Oh, have I ever,” Tash says, arching an eyebrow. “Winter’s former business associate and current top link in the vampire food chain in Manhattan. We’ve had our eye on him for a long time.”

“Good, so we won’t have to explain who he is, and why we want to help him.”

“If it’s because you think he’s about to be assassinated and you want to prevent a turf war, then no, you don’t need to explain. But I guess you could tell me how you know about it before I do.”

“He showed up at Heart of Darkness while you and Steve were on the island,” Bucky says. “He said there was a threat to his territory by some other vampires. I took Steve to see him and he changed his story. Apparently it’s actually a pack of werewolves he managed to piss off in Norway. They’re here in the city and he thinks they’re gunning for him. He wants our help dealing with them.”

“One pack shouldn’t be much of a problem for him,” Tash frowns. “Why does he want your help?”

“He says their leader, a wolf who calls himself Thor, is a lot more dangerous than the usual pack alpha,” Steve says. “From what he tells us, this guy is more like me than a standard wolf, which is scary enough on its own, but his pack might also be. If there are a bunch of wolves running loose in New York who are as powerful as me, we could be looking at a serious threat to public safety.”

“Well, that’s what Shield is here for,” Tash says. “But how do you know he’s even telling—nevermind. Wolf senses. I keep forgetting you can smell it when people lie. Does Loki know you’re getting Shield involved?”

“He isn’t aware of Shield at all, as far as we know,” Steve says. “We didn’t mention anything, except that we have some friends who might be able to help. We wanted to get your take on the situation first, before we risked freaking him out by introducing him to the idea of the supernatural intelligence sector.”

“Well, if these wolves are here and they’re that dangerous, we’ll know pretty quickly. But it would be preferable not to find them by following a trail of bodies. Did he say where they are?”

Bucky shakes his head. “He only said the pack has been sighted in the city. He always has spies and informants everywhere, so it doesn’t surprise me that he was alerted.”

“So do we, and I bet ours are more efficient. If you can give me descriptions on the pack, I’ll get it to our eyes and ears on the ground. How do you guys want to proceed once we find them?”

“Loki says they’re vicious barbarians who can’t be reasoned with, but I get the feeling he thinks of most wolves that way,” Steve says. “If it’s possible, I’d like to find a peaceful resolution to this. But we can’t say how they’ll react to us until we make contact. My preferred strategy would be to initiate alone, try to assess their strength and what they want, only send in a team to incapacitate and capture if necessary.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Tash says. “Does Maria have anything on them?”

“Nothing on the leader, who was the only one Loki gave us a name for.”

“I’m texting him right now,” Bucky says. “Asking for descriptions and names for the rest of the pack.”

“Good. We’ll wait for Loki’s intel and see if Maria can tell us anything else before we take it to Fury. Right now, we’re going on nothing but the word of a vampire he’s not a huge fan of, so we’ll need more before we can hope to get a mission approved. And it’s better if we do this without revealing Shield to Loki, so it’ll be cover identities, when we do move.”

“How exciting,” Steve beams. “I’d love to see you guys doing real-life spy stuff.”

“Well, you will be, too. You’ll have to know our cover IDs as well as we do. And not fuck up the names.”

“He really likes to use people’s real names,” Bucky mutters, still looking at his phone.

“No, I really like to use yours,” Steve rejoins. “And I’m a professional, Buck. I won’t fuck it up during a mission.”

“I know you won’t, babe,” Bucky says, pressing a kiss to his forehead, then returning his attention to his phone.

“Babe?” Tash says, wrinkling her nose. “Ew, I did not like that.”

“Me either,” Steve frowns. “You never call me that, Buck, what’s gotten into you?”

“Hm?” Bucky says, looking up from his phone. “Oh, I don’t know, it just slipped out. Maybe I’m finally going senile.”

“I think if dementia hasn’t set in by the early three-hundreds, you’re safe,” Tash says. “You don’t usually sit in your boyfriend’s lap either. You’re probably just in a mood.”

“I am, kind of. I’ve been all weird and on edge lately. I think it’s dealing with Loki and the Hydra guys all at once. I usually don’t have this much going on. Oh, here are the pack descriptions and names from Loki.”

Bucky forwards the text message to Tash’s phone, then yawns deeply and lays his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“Maybe you two should go home and get some rest,” Tash says. “I’ve got everything covered here for now. But keep your phones on, in case things heat up.”

“Thank you, Tash,” Steve says, as he and Bucky rise to go. “You really are the best.”

“I know,” she grins. “Plus, I actually work here, so I have to stay anyway. Have a good night, babies.”

“Ok Tash, night night,” Bucky yawns again. “Don’t let the vampires bite.”

“Oh my god gross, get out of here!” Tash laughs. “You are off the rails!”

 

 

“Damn it,” Steve says, as Bucky slumps against him in the cab. “We were supposed to have Wanda take a look at you tonight. I got distracted and forgot about it. And you let me, you sneak.”

“I told you I wasn’t falling into your trap, you dumb wolf,” Bucky mumbles. “I want to go home. And get in bed. And for you to be naked.”

“Ok, but tomorrow night you’re going to see Wanda. And I’m not going to forget, so don’t get any cute ideas.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the boss of me, I know. Now be quiet, I’m trying to sleep on you.”

Steve laughs and wraps his arms around his vampire beloved, content to let him doze during the cab ride. When they pull up to his building, he wakes him and leads him inside, then picks him up and carries him up the five flights of stairs to his apartment. Which will be their apartment, soon. Once Steve has moved his things in and terminated his lease at his own place.

He lays Bucky down in his bed, then props himself up on an elbow and gazes into his beautiful face, stroking his hair and tracing a finger along his brow and cheekbones, and the outline of his jaw. He loves this man so much it makes his chest feel full and tight, and ache like it’s trying to split open. His fallen angel. His beautiful demon. His best friend, his lover, his mate. The man who saved his life. The reason he has a life to share with him now.

Bucky smiles up at him and draws him into a kiss. A soft, deep, intimate kiss that expresses the meaning and weight of their connection to each other better than any words could hope to do. They undress slowly, touching and caressing each other’s bodies, laughing softly and saying the little, intimate things that pass between accustomed lovers.

When Steve penetrates Bucky at long last, he holds his large, green eyes with his bright-blue ones, watching his pupils dilate and his eyelids flutter closed, as his pouting lips part in a soft moan. He thrusts slow and deep, moving with him, breathing his breath, tasting his mouth, still kissing him as they come in unison, clinging to each other as if even a molecule of space between them is too much to bear.

Still reluctant to let go, Steve lies holding him tightly in his arms, till Bucky laughs and rolls him onto his back, then pulls away. Steve looks after him dreamily as he goes into the bathroom, listening to the cabinet opening and shutting, the sound of his toothbrush, and the water running in the sink.

This is happiness. He knows with his whole soul, after all those years of wretched loneliness, the cold, black grief of believing the only man he would ever love was lost to him forever, that being with him this way, sharing these little moments in time together, this is worth all of that and more.

“He’s worth it,” he whispers to the peaceful darkness of their bedroom.

“What did you say?” Bucky asks, as he comes over to climb back into bed. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I said I love you,” Steve says, drawing him in for another kiss. “I love you so much, Buck.”

“I love you too, Steve,” Bucky says softly.

Then he nestles his head into the crook of his shoulder and drapes his heavy, steel and titanium arm across his chest. With a contented sigh, Steve laces his warm, human fingers into the cold metal ones, and they drift off to sleep in each other’s arms.

 

 

 

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

 

 

 

 

Lying in bed watching Steve dress in the evening has to be one of the primary perks of being his boyfriend. Particularly because he’s easily distracted and gets his clothes on bit by bit, in between hopping back into bed for kisses, sending text messages to Sam and Clint, or walking around in his tight, navy-blue briefs and one sock, looking for his other sock. The latter being what he is doing right now.

Stupid, sexy wolf and his literally perfect body. There isn’t an inch of Steve that doesn’t look like it has its own workout routine. Bucky wonders if he even has some of the muscles he can see on Steve’s preposterous torso.

“Found it!” Steve proclaims, popping up from the floor. “I think I kicked it under the bed. Are you gonna get dressed, or are you gonna lounge like a lazy cat all night?”

“I’m getting up right now,” Bucky says, continuing to lounge. “Hey, why don’t we go get coffee and throw the ball around in the park for a while?”

Steve considers this. “Well, you know how I feel about the park, but shouldn’t we be working on the Loki thing?”

“I don’t know what else we can do until Shield intel gets a hit on the wolves,” Bucky yawns. “And I’m sick of all this spy stuff. I want to just do something normal. Pretend every single day isn’t some life and death emergency for a while, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve smiles, leaning down for a kiss. “But you do have to get up first.”

“I’m up, I’m up,” Bucky grumbles, allowing himself to be dragged out of bed.

He goes the walk-in closet to pull on his grey jeans and dark-grey v-neck tee, then comes to sit on the edge of the bed to lace up his boots. When they are laced to his satisfaction, he stretches out his left arm and inspects the glossy, chrome-like surface, watching the articulated plates shift as he rotates his wrist.

“It’s weird how little anyone seems to notice this thing,” he says. “I wonder why no one ever asks me about it.”

“That’d be pretty rude,” Steve says. “Asking a stranger about a prosthetic limb?”

“And they’d probably be too scared of me, anyway.”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve smirks. “That’s definitely it.”

“What? I’m a vampire, Steve. I’m very scary.”

“You’re right. You’re very scary. Are you ready to go play catch in the park now?”

“Yeah, I just need to grab my sunglasses. Do you have the ball?”

“Of course I do, Buck. Do I ever not have the ball?”

“I dunno, you’ve managed to leave it several different places now. You’re lucky Shield wanted to go back to the island, or it’d still be there.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Steve shudders, as they walk down the stairs. “I almost lost it for good that time.”

“You know, we could just buy a bunch of those things. It’s like sixteen bucks for a dozen of them on Amazon.”

“Maybe,” Steve says doubtfully. “But those ones wouldn’t be this one. This is the best ball in the world.”

“I know, Steve,” Bucky smiles. “I wonder who’s working at Heart of Darkness tonight. I hope it’s not the space child.”

“Sky? She’s nice. What’s wrong with Sky?”

“What’s wrong with her? First of all, she has never once been able to comprehend my very simple order. And second of all, she looks like a baby deer had a baby with an even babier deer.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Buck,” Steve says, tossing the ball up and catching it as they stroll along. “Baby deer can’t have babier babies.”

“Maybe she’s a new species. She’s a miracle of science and I discovered her. The world’s first known double-baby deer.”

“Well, it’s not her,” Steve says as they walk up to the door. “Looks like your National Geographic article will have to wait.”

The kid behind the bar has shaggy, black bangs and a lip piercing, and barely looks at them as he takes their order. He manages to make the drinks without incident, however, and doesn’t bother them with small-talk, which cheers Bucky up considerably.

“See, that’s a barista,” he tells Steve, as they continue on toward the park.

“I thought he was kind of unfriendly,” Steve frowns. “He didn’t even say thank you, or goodbye or anything.”

“Exactly,” Bucky says, sipping his Americano. “Brusque, bored, too hip to give anyone the time of day, and my coffee is perfect.”

“You’d have made a good barista, then,” Steve grins. “If that’s the criteria.”

“Maybe, if I’d ever wanted to do anything that resembled working for a living. Which I did not.”

They are just walking into the grass under the trees, when Steve stops short, lifting his head and scenting the air eagerly.

“What? What do you smell?”

Steve’s big, bright-blue eyes light up with one of his stupid, sunny smiles. “My friends are here! Dusty and Waffles! Come on, Buck, we have to find them and say hi!”

He grabs Bucky’s hand and pulls him along, until sure enough, about twenty yards away, they see a tall, pretty blonde woman in jeans and a floral patterned blouse, walking with two stout, short-legged corgis. Bucky surmises, from the ecstatic reaction of the canines, that they have some recollection of their wolf friend Steve.

“Hi, Sharon!” Steve beams, from where he is already kneeling and allowing the jubilant dogs to hop all over him and lap his face with their pink tongues. “I’m so happy to see you guys again! Dusty, Waffles! How have you been?”

The woman is visibly startled for a brief moment, then she recognizes Steve and laughs. “Hi, Steve. It’s nice to see you again, too.”

“Sorry. I didn’t introduce you,” Steve says, rubbing the joyously overturned dogs’ bellies. “Winter, this is Sharon and Dusty and Waffles. Sharon, this is Winter. He’s my boyfriend. We’re in love.”

“Uh…hi. Winter, was it?” Sharon says, politely shaking Bucky’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. Steve and I met when I was walking these maniacs in the park a couple of months ago. I guess he didn’t forget them.”

“He did not,” Bucky confirms. “He told me all about them. He’s…really crazy about dogs.”

“Oh, do you have one?” Sharon asks, glancing about as if there might be a dog present that she has somehow failed to see.

“I have Steve,” Bucky shrugs. “So, pretty much.”

“I see what you mean,” Sharon laughs.

Steve has just produced the ball and sent his canine admirers into paroxysms of delight. Sharon nods by way of giving him permission, and he tosses the ball into the off-leash area of the park. She and Bucky follow at a more reasonable pace, as Steve goes sprinting off after the ball with his friends.

“So, Winter is a unique name,” Sharon says. “Are you a musician or something?”

“Nah, I don’t really do anything. Winter is a sort of…family name.”

“Oh, cool,” Sharon smiles. “You must have an interesting family.”

They stop near a park bench as Steve tumbles melodramatically to the ground, pretending to have been knocked over by the two small dogs, and surrenders the ball. Exhilarated by their victory, they immediately drop the ball and proceed to pounce on him and yap exuberantly, while he rolls around in the grass for their entertainment.

“I wish I could do nothing sometimes,” Sharon offers, admirably attempting to keep up the conversation. “I think I’d laze around for a whole year if I could get the time off.”

“What do you do?” Bucky asks, because that is what one is supposed to do when making courteous chit-chat.

Whatever she is saying in response, he does not hear a word of it. As they’ve been standing here, his throat has begun to ache and constrict. He clears it and tries to swallow, but it’s getting worse. It almost feels as if he’s being strangled.

“Hey, are you ok?” Sharon frowns, observing his sudden look of distress.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” he chokes out, clutching at his neck. “My throat—it’s closing up.”

“That sounds like anaphylaxis,” she says, laying a hand on his shoulder to look into his face. “Are you allergic to something in your coffee?”

The next few seconds are impossible for Bucky to parse in any meaningful way. His vision literally goes black. When it returns, it takes him a moment to comprehend the situation. The first thing of which he is aware, is that he is being ferociously assailed by two tiny, ridiculous canines, who are growling and barking, and tearing at the calves of his jeans. The next thing of which he is aware is Steve forcibly separating him from the human being in whose neck his fangs are deeply embedded.

He staggers backward a few steps as Steve supports the unconscious and bleeding Sharon in his arms, while trying to calm the dogs. As soon as Bucky is detached from her, they begin to trot frantically about and whine pleadingly up at Steve.

“Buck, what the fuck happened?” Steve says, stricken. “Why did you bite her?”

“I have—I have no idea,” Bucky pants, clutching his head. “I didn’t mean to. I fucking blacked out, I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

“Come here and heal the bite, quickly,” Steve says. “Jesus fucking Christ, this is bad. We’re lucky there’s no one around.”

Bucky nicks his tongue with a fang and licks the wound on the unconscious woman’s neck, then whispers a word of forgetfulness and steps hastily away. Steve lowers her carefully onto the bench, and Dusty and Waffles take up positions in front of the bench on either side of her, watching her vigilantly.

“You better get out of here, Buck,” Steve says. “I’ll walk her to her place when she comes to, then I’ll meet you at home. Will you be ok till I get back?”

Bucky nods dazedly, then dissipates into black vapor and vanishes. Steve sits there talking reassuringly to his canine friends and fanning Sharon’s face with his hand, for no reason other than that he’s seen it done when people faint in films.

After a few minutes, she gives a soft groan and stirs, then sits up with a start, gasping and looking about, wild-eyed and disoriented.

“Sharon?” Steve says. “Hey, it’s me, Steve. Are you ok?”

“Steve,” she replies groggily. “How did—what happened?”

“You passed out,” Steve says. “You don’t remember?”

“I passed out? No, I…I don’t remember. I was watching you playing with Dusty and Waffles, and then…I don’t know.”

“Well, luckily you didn’t hit your head or anything. I caught you and set you down here. Dusty and Waffles were pretty worried, though, weren’t you boys?”

The dogs respond by standing up with their front paws on Sharon’s knees and snuffing her with deep concern as she leans down to ruffle their fur.

“I think you better let me walk you home,” Steve says, rising from the bench and holding out his hand. “Just to make sure you’re safe.”

Sharon lets him help her to her feet, but wobbles and sways as she stands. He catches her and holds her steady till she gets her balance.

“I’m really woozy, wow,” she laughs awkwardly. “God, Steve, I am so embarrassed. I hope I didn’t give you a scare or anything. This is a terrible second impression to make.”

“No, no, don’t apologize,” Steve says affably. “I’m just glad you’re ok.”

“I don’t know why I would’ve fainted. I have been overextending myself at work lately. Not sleeping as much as I should be. Maybe I’m just exhausted.”

“Maybe,” he says, as they step out of the grassy area onto the sidewalk. “Hey, I’m really sorry I didn’t call you. All this crazy stuff happened at work. I was out of the country and back, and then out of the country again. I just didn’t have a spare second.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I’m an ER surgeon, so…you know. I understand busy better than anyone. What do you do, anyway?”

“I guess I’m in the law enforcement sector. Law enforcement adjacent, would be more accurate. I’m a sort of private investigator right now.”

“Wow, that must be exciting,” Sharon says, raising her eyebrows.

“It can be. It’s better when it’s not, though.”

“Sounds kind of like the medical field. If things get exciting, people’s lives are probably in danger, so it’s better when it’s kind of boring.”

“That’s exactly like my job, actually,” Steve laughs, as they approach the entrance to a stately brownstone adjoining the park.

“This is me,” Sharon says. “I picked a place right by the park for these boys.”

“It’s really nice,” Steve smiles. “I bet they like it here.”

“They seem to. I wish I had more time to spend outside with them, though. They get stir crazy indoors all day. So, um…would you like to come up and have a cup of coffee or something?”

“I’d love to, but my boyfriend is expecting me back any minute,” Steve says. “Raincheck?”

“Sure,” Sharon says, smiling to conceal her palpable disappointment. “Just give me a call. Dusty and Waffles would be thrilled to see you any time. And we’d love to meet your boyfriend, too.”

“I’ll do that,” Steve says, bending down to scratch his furry friends’ heads one more time. “Night, boys. You take extra good care of your human. Goodnight, Sharon.”

He watches until she’s safely inside the building with her canine protectors, then darts off like a blur after Bucky. What the actual fucking fuck happened? He’d heard her give a cry and turned to see Bucky already on her, draining her blood. Luckily, Steve is incredibly fast and strong, or she might be dead right now.

He dashes up the stairs and into Bucky’s apartment, where he finds him lying on the sofa, staring listlessly up at the ceiling.

“Hey, Buck,” he says, sitting on the edge of the cushion beside him. “How are you doing, are you ok?”

“No, I’m not fucking ok, Steve,” Bucky snaps. “I almost fucking killed a woman just now and I don’t have any idea how it happened.”

“What do you remember? Can you describe it to me?”

“I was standing there with her, making stupid small-talk, then I started feeling like…like I was choking or something.” Bucky reaches up and rubs his throat agitatedly. “It seriously felt like I was being strangled. She put her hand on me and asked if I was allergic to anything and then you were pulling me off her. That’s all. I just blanked out.”

“Ok, we’re going to see Wanda right now,” Steve says, standing and pulling him to his feet. “You’ve been off lately and I have a feeling this is connected.”

“Is she…is Sharon ok?”

“Yeah, she’ll be fine. And all she remembers is passing out. She actually didn’t even remember meeting you. Those vampire powers are pretty handy, huh?”

“Yep. We’re opportunity predators. Stealth and deception are how we survive,” Bucky sighs, then he looks imploringly up into Steve’s face. “I’m so sorry, Steve. I swear I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I know, Buck. I know you. That’s why I’m so worried. Hopefully Wanda can tell us what’s going on with you.”

 

 

 

Back at Shield, they head directly up to the vampire division, where Wanda has been assigned to act as a sort of mystical physician and counselor to Shield’s vampire agents, due to her rather unique set of skills, and extensive experience working closely with one of their kind.

It amuses Steve to see the vampire agents back away instinctively and lower their eyes as Bucky passes. He’d heard that they can sense each other’s presence, and how old and powerful another vampire is. Apparently that’s true. These agents are all young and blood-warm. Compared to them, his beloved is a tower of ancient stone, upon which they would break like matchwood.

A very nervous vampire woman directs them to Wanda’s new office, at the far corner of the northwest hall. It has large windows with a beautiful view of the city, and the décor is very much in her style, featuring a lot of rich reds and burgundies. Out of consideration to her vampire patients, it is low-lit, with warm, yellow light shining from beneath the shades of lamps, rather than overhead fluorescent bulbs.

She rises to greet them with kisses on the cheek, and invites them to sit on a wine-colored leather sofa, which is piled all about with plush, jewel-toned, velvet pillows. She seats herself across from them in a matching chair, listening with a frown of concern, as Bucky and Steve relate the incident in the park.

“And you have been feeding regularly?” she asks. “You were not blood starved?”

“Not at all,” Bucky says. “Steve gave me blood when we got up this evening, so I should be good for a few days. Though, actually, his blood seems to be wearing off more quickly than usual lately.”

“Do you mind if I examine you?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Steve says. “I tried to get him to come sooner, but you know how he is.”

“If you mean extremely stubborn, then yes. Hold still like a good boy, soldat.”

Bucky wrinkles his nose as tendrils of her red aura reach out and coil about him, like tingly little wisps of smoke. He can feel her power prickling about in his body, moving from place to place along the lines of all his veins, but he manages to keep from fidgeting around, and it only lasts a minute or two.

“You drank from this woman tonight?” she asks, as she retracts her aura.

“Yeah, like an hour ago,” Bucky says.

“How much?”

“Not sure. A couple of liters at least. She passed out.”

“That is very strange,” Wanda says, shaking her head. “You are exhibiting symptoms of mild blood starvation already. Your heart rate and body temperature are slightly elevated, too. Almost as if you are running in a higher gear and have burned the blood off more quickly than normal. I can’t find anything else wrong with you. Any other unusual symptoms?”

“I’ve been kind of tense and on edge lately. Having weird mood swings, getting the thirst suddenly. And I’ve been really tired. I don’t ever nap in the middle of the night. Not in four hundred years. This week I’ve done it twice.”

“Hm. Well, if you were alive and a lady, I’d recommend a pregnancy test. Otherwise, I would say much of that is likely attributable to stress, if it were not for what happened tonight. When did this begin?”

Bucky sits back and crosses his arms thoughtfully. “The first time I noticed having the thirst really badly out of nowhere was the other night, after I tried to question Rumlow.”

At the mention of the man’s name, Wanda’s red aura flares up all around her and she jumps to her feet.

“Rumlow is here?” she hisses. “That son of a bitch, I will tear him apart.”

“Whoa, hang on,” Steve says, raising his hands. “He’s in the medbay ICU and we need him alive, so no tearing apart. For now.”

Wanda takes a deep breath to calm herself and pulls her aura back. “What happened? Why is he in intensive care?”

“I found him with the Hydra men who survived, trying to pass for a guard,” Bucky says. “I asked him where the old man was. He started to answer me, but he got sick all the sudden and he’s been unconscious since. They say his endocrine system started to fail.”

“He just got sick and went into endocrine shock? Nothing else happened?”

“That’s all. I think whatever he was going to tell me triggered an arcane trap, but they aren’t detectable once they’ve been set off, so the med people can’t say for sure. The thing is, I got sick too, when whatever it was happened. Do you think it could be that affecting me?”

“I do not know. The trap enchantments I have placed on agents to prevent them sharing intel did not have an area of effect. They only worked on the individual to which they had been bound. And I was never asked to put such a trap on Rumlow. But it is possible the necromancer placed one on him that worked differently than mine.”

“That’s why we need him alive,” Steve says. “That, and he might know what happened to Zemo. We’re waiting for him to wake up so he can be questioned.”

“I can find out what he knows. I do not need him conscious to get into his mind.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “You don’t?”

“No. It will be a bit more difficult, since he will not be actively participating, but I can access his subconscious while he sleeps.”

“Ok, let’s find Tash and let her know what we’re up to. I doubt the doctors are going to let us in there to see him without higher-up approval.”

“Texting her right now,” Bucky says.

About fifteen seconds later, Tash appears, standing beside the sofa.

“Wow, Wanda, your office looks great,” she says. “They got it set up for you really fast. How do you like the team so far?”

“Oh, everyone has been wonderful,” Wanda smiles. “The vampire staff here are so welcoming, and almost all of my appointment slots are booked for a solid month.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So, what’s up? Winter said you guys needed my help.”

“The Hydra man, Rumlow,” Steve says. “Wanda can get into his memory and find out what he knows, and we need authorization ASAP. We think whatever made him sick might be doing something to Winter, too.”

“Why’s that?” Tash frowns.

Steve shifts uncomfortably. “He hasn’t been feeling well since it happened, and there was…an incident tonight.”

“I blacked out and bit Sharon,” Bucky says flatly. “The woman who owns Steve’s dog friends.”

“Ah, the famous Sharon. You didn’t kill her, did you?”

“No. She’s ok. Steve took her home and she doesn’t remember. The problem is, neither do I.”

“I’d say that classifies as an emergency condition if anything does. Wanda, you are officially authorized to access Mr. Rumlow’s room. These two aren’t going to be allowed in there, though. That ok?”

Wanda nods. “Yes, I prefer to work without distractions, anyway.”

“Perfect. I’ll call down and let them know you’re coming,” she says, as Wanda rises to go. Then she turns back to Steve and Bucky. “Anything else I can do to help?”

“You could lock me up in my old cell,” Bucky says bitterly. “Since apparently I’m a danger to innocent people. Again.”

“Not a chance, babe,” Tash smirks. “Steve is on Winter duty and I trust him to keep you on your best behavior, now that he knows you’ve gone rogue.”

Bucky lift his hands in exasperation. “Why is it ok when you say babe but not when I do?”

“Cause it’s a demon thing. Don’t appropriate my culture, babe.”

“Did Maria have anything on Thor’s pack?” Steve asks.

“All she can tell me is that their names seem to correspond with figures from some ancient stories about Thor being a werewolf. She thinks they likely lifted the names from the mythology to support the perception that this guy is _the_ Thor, which seems plausible to me.”

“Great,” Bucky mutters. “A werewolf with a god complex. That’s all we need.”

“The good news is, Fury has approved a mission, providing we handle it how Steve suggested. So, if you guys aren’t busy, we should talk team.”

“Falcon, Hawkeye, Winter, and me,” Steve says. “Hill on support at HQ, and you’re our heavy in case shit goes south.”

“Ok then, Captain Rogers,” Tash laughs. “I guess we have a team.”

“Steve is very decisive,” Bucky says. “Loki just texted me. He wants to know if we plan to leave him in suspense forever. His words.”

“Tell him to hold his fucking horses and the cavalry is on its way,” Steve says. “We should set up ops at his penthouse, in case they come looking for him. Where are Sam and Clint?”

“I saw them a little while ago. They were headed to the sorcery-tech division to talk to my dad about some gadget he made for Clint. Want to go down there?”

“No,” Bucky glowers.

“Yes,” Steve chirps. “I keep hearing your dad is the best sorcerer in the world. I’m really excited to see what he’s been up to.”

“Looks like it’s two against one,” Tash says to Bucky. “Sorry, babe.”

 

 

 

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

 

 

 

 

Shield’s new Sorcery and Technology Division is the most fantastic place Steve has ever seen. Everywhere he looks, there are things going on. People walking to and fro and tapping on black tablets, robotic arms performing automated processes that create blue arcs and flashes of light, all types of shiny, metal devices being inspected on workbenches, and a long row of round, black tables with glowing globes of different colors in their centers. He doesn’t have the faintest clue what any of these things do, but they look very impressive.

“Hey, babydoll,” Tash’s father says, looking up from what appears to be a holographic simulation, floating in midair before his face. He swipes his hand across the thing and it disintegrates in blue shimmers. “Captain Rogers. Soldat. Good to see you. Welcome to the secret lab.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” Steve smiles. “But if you want to keep it a secret, you might want to have them take down the Sorcery and Technology Division signs in the hallway.”

“Didn’t they put ‘definitely not a secret lab’ on those signs like I said? Ugh, no one obeys me around here. What can I do for you guys?”

“We’re looking for Falcon and Hawkeye,” Tash says. “We’ve got a mission and we want them to come with.”

“I guess you can’t tell me what—oh wait, I work here now!” Mr. Stark says delightedly, then he pulls a serious face. “What’s the mission?”

“You know Loki, correct?” Tash says.

“Please, Tasha, everyone knows Loki,” Mr. Stark smirks. “What did he do?”

“He pissed off some werewolves and we’re going to help him deal with them.”

“Ooh, sounds fun. Hey, I have something that might come in handy, if you wouldn’t mind testing them for me. They’re sort of…prototypes.”

Tash raises an eyebrow. “Prototypes of what?” 

“They’re essentially single-use masking spells,” Mr. Stark says, leading them over to a workstation, where he picks up what appears to be a silver fountain pen, from a case containing several others like it. “Self-casting, so all you have to do is twist this cap and pull it open, and the spell will deploy. If they function as intended, they’ll totally mask your scent for several hours. Might be useful if you want to sneak up on some werewolves.”

“Yeah, if they function as intended,” Tash says, eyeing the things suspiciously. “I don’t need a masking spell to hide myself from lesser hybrids, but you guys can take them if you want.”

“Sure,” Steve says, accepting four of the pen things from their host. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Let me know how they work,” Mr. Stark says. “And if you experience any…you know. Weird side-effects. They should be perfectly stable, but they haven’t been as rigorously tested as Hawkeye’s new toy.”

“New toy?” Tash asks.

“He’s over at the firing range. You should go see for yourself,” Mr. Stark grins. “Hey, soldat, before you go. I’ve been meaning to say thank you again. I still owe you one, so if you want an upgrade for that arm sometime, come and see me.”

“You owe him one?” Steve asks, cocking his head curiously. “What did he do for you?”

“He killed my parents,” Mr. Stark says cheerfully.

Steve looks horrified. “He—he what?”

“Destroyed is more accurate, I guess,” Mr. Stark replies. “They were…uh. Let’s just say that necromancy, much like brain surgery, is not a field in which one should dabble.”

“I hope you’re not dabbling here, dad,” Tash admonishes. “Necromancy is a big Shield no-no.”

“Don’t worry, princess, my dabbling days are done. It took months to get the revenant stench out of the manor. And all the clattering around and wailing. I shudder.”

“Hang on, how did Winter wind up involved?” Steve asks.

“He couldn’t destroy his parents’ revenants since he raised them with a spell he didn’t understand,” Bucky explains. “Pepper was away on demon business, but she told him to contact me, since I was in the area and powerful enough to handle them.”

“But…when was this?”

“1991.”

“Where was Tash?”

“I had accompanied my dear mother on the aforementioned demon business,” Tash says. “I didn’t even know any of it happened till we got back.”

“Ok wait,” Steve says, still attempting to parse the situation. “Winter, you met Pepper in 1942. Then Hydra took you and erased your memory. Then you came back and Mr. Stark contacted you…how the hell did you know who he was?”

“They could only keep my memory erased by shredding my brain,” Bucky says. “When they lost control of me, all my soldier memory blanked, because it was bound by that mind stone thing, but my own memories came back. Of course I remembered Pepper. You don’t forget running into a big-time chaos demon.”

“What about all your missing years?” Steve frowns. “You didn’t wonder what happened?”

“No. Whatever the mind stone did, it prevented me from even questioning it. I just lived in denial and reasoned around it. Turns out it was better than remembering. Can we talk about something else, please?”

“We should go see Hawkeye and Falcon,” Tash says. “Later, dad. Thanks for the gadgets.”

“Oh, bye sweetie,” Mr. Stark calls after her as they walk away, looking up from the tablet he has become engrossed in. “Have a great mission!”

 

 

 

 

 

_Soldat._

The soldier stirs in his sleep and makes a drowsy sound.

_Soldat, wake up._

This time the prompt is accompanied by a rush of adrenaline that sets his heart racing. The soldier’s eyes snap open, then he lies there blinking confusedly at an unfamiliar ceiling. Collar? What time is it? How long have I been in a sleep cycle?

_Current time 18:01. Sleep cycle duration eleven hours, seven minutes, fifty-two seconds._

The soldier racks his disoriented, sleep-addled mind, but he can’t make anything coherent come together. Nothing seems right. He can’t remember where he is or what his mission even is. Collar, where am I?

_Manhattan Island, New York._

What am I doing in Manhattan? What’s my mission?

_Mission status offline. Current objective: hunt._

Hunt?

_Blood starvation imminent. Blood required. Find blood. Hunt._

Calm the fuck down, collar. I don’t have to hunt to get blood, Steve will—

With a cold shock of horror, Bucky sits bolt-upright, gasping and clutching at his neck. The collar isn’t there. Of course it isn’t. The necromancer is dead and the collar was destroyed. Jesus fucking Christ, he must’ve been dreaming. But it felt so real. He can still feel its low, hissing voice echoing in his mind.

He attempts to swallow in a dry throat. Collar…?

No answer.

Of fucking course there’s no answer. It was a dream. It was just a dream. He wraps his arms around himself, trembling with an internal chill. He’s in pain. The thirst is racking him, tearing at him from the inside. He needs blood so badly. Where is Steve? As if summoned by the thought, Steve appears in the en-suite bathroom doorway, with a frown of concern on his handsome face.

“Hey, Buck, are you ok?” he says, as he approaches the bed. “You’re all white and your eyes are glowing.”

“I had…a nightmare,” Bucky rasps. “The collar was back on me. I—I heard it talking to me.”

“Oh Buck, I’m so sorry,” Steve says, wrapping him up in his strong, warm arms. “That must’ve been horrible.”

“I’m…I’ll be ok. I need blood. Please.”

Steve immediately bites his wrist and presses it to Bucky’s mouth. He gags and his body jerks reflexively as the bitter, aromatic liquid pours down his throat, but he forces himself to swallow as much of it as Steve will give him. It starts working instantly. Calming the gnawing thirst and diffusing warmth into his icy flesh, soothing his taxed muscles. Steve’s comforting scent washes over him and he slumps against his chest, unable to stop the tears already spilling down his face.

“I’ve got you, Buck,” Steve says softly, holding him close and stroking his hair. “You’re ok, I’ve got you.”

“They made me a slave,” Bucky chokes out, between hoarse sobs. “They hurt me. They—they made me hurt other people. So many people.”

“They can’t hurt you anymore,” Steve says, squeezing him more tightly. “They’re dead and their fortress is destroyed, and I’m never going to let anyone take you away again. I promise.”

He holds his vampire beloved in his arms, rocking him and speaking gently to him until his labored breathing eases, and his weeping subsides. After a long while, Bucky draws away and sighs, wiping the remaining traces of tears from his pale cheeks.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” he says wearily. “This probably isn’t how you imagined me when you were a kid, huh.”

“You’re the man who saved me, Buck. I didn’t imagine that. You were my hero then and you are now.”

“I’m not a hero, Steve. I’m a fucking broken wreck with a missing arm who cries over bad dreams.”

“You don’t get to decide what makes you a hero,” Steve says, taking his metal hand and kissing it. “I know you’re broken. So am I. But those broken parts are where we hold each other together. I need you as much as you need me. If we were perfect, we wouldn’t need anyone.”

“But that’s just it, Steve. You’re not broken the way I am, where the scars go so deep there’s more scars than man. I’m so fucked up. And I’m…I’m afraid. I’m afraid you’re going to find out I’m too broken and give up on me.”

Steve shakes his head. “Never. You’re my mate. We’re bound to each other, no matter what. There’s nothing that could make me give up on you.”

“But what if you can’t fix me. What if I’m like this forever. If I never get better, will you be happy with me?”

“You’re thinking of it the wrong way, Buck. I’m not trying to fix you. I love you exactly the way you are, scars and metal arm and crying and bad dreams and everything. Of course I want you to be as happy as you can be, because I care about you. But you being sad and wounded is never going to make me love you less. That’s not how love works.”

“Why?” Bucky asks, looking pleadingly into his eyes. “Why do you love me?”

“Because you’re you,” Steve says simply. “You’re my one. The other half of my soul. That’s all there is to it.”

“I love you so much,” Bucky says, throwing his arms around Steve’s neck and covering his mouth in an urgent, hungry kiss. “I need you right now. Fuck me.”

Steve pushes him onto his back, eyes already ignited with amber-gold fire. Bucky gasps as he slides down and takes his cock in his searing-hot mouth, sucking and swallowing on it, deep-throating him like he’s never even heard the term gag-reflex. He grabs a handful of Steve’s soft, blonde hair and fucks his mouth, thrusting wildly into the back of his throat as he races headlong toward climax.

Just when he’s on the blinding edge, Steve pulls away, leaving his cock wet and cold, and aching for release. Bucky’s whine of protest dissolves into a low moan as Steve lifts and spreads his ass with both hands and begins to circle the sensitive rim of his asshole with his hot, rough tongue.

His lips part and his eyes roll shut. His cock throbs and drools all over his stomach as Steve tongue-fucks him half out of his senses. He just needs the slightest touch to push him over the edge and he’ll explode. He reaches down to stroke himself.

Steve catches his hand and pins it. “Don’t. No hands.”

“Please, I’m so…fucking close,” Bucky groans. “You’re driving me crazy.”

Steve bares his fangs in a wicked grin, pushing himself up to kneel between Bucky’s legs.

“You want it?” he says, teasing his taut, spit-slick entrance with the warm, blunt head of his cock.

“Yes—yes,” Bucky pants. “Give it to me.”

“Say please again,” Steve snarls. “Beg me.”

Bucky’s ears burn with humiliation at the bluntness of the command. He has had far more than his fair share of kinky sex, but he has almost always been the dominant party in the interaction. He has never been told to beg before. Not by anyone. 

“Please,” he says, just above a whisper.

Steve pushes his cock barely inside and rolls his hips gently, giving him just enough friction to drive him the rest of the way out of his mind. Bucky grabs hold of his thighs, straining in vain to pull him deeper, but Steve draws back.

“I said beg,” he growls, low in his throat.

The tone and timbre of his voice send chills racing up Bucky’s spine. He stares up into the fierce, bright-gold eyes of the wolf and finds his proud defiance subdued. He wants to submit to Steve. To lay down his arms and surrender willingly. His initial humiliation gives way to a warm rush of lightheaded euphoria.

“Please, fuck me,” he moans softly—almost a purr—letting his thighs fall wantonly apart. “I want you. Please, I need—”

His pleas break off in a strangled cry as Steve penetrates him to the hilt in one deep, sharp thrust. Bucky’s mind reels with the sensory overload of mingled pain and pleasure. Steve is stretching him open, splitting him apart, impaling him on his thick, rigid cock.

Keeping his pelvis pressed flush against his ass, Steve rocks his hips slowly, giving Bucky’s tight muscles a moment to acclimate. Then he pulls out abruptly and gives another brutal thrust, holding it deep inside, watching Bucky writhe and arch his back beneath him.

“Please f—fuck me,” Bucky sputters breathlessly. “Fucking—fuck me!”

Steve pushes Bucky’s knees up, bending him nearly in half as he leans over him to press their chests together, sinking his fangs into his neck. Bucky barely feels the bite. His consciousness is thoroughly engulfed in Steve’s scent, his heat, the weight and power of his body. The ecstasy of allowing his mate to dominate him completely.

Three thrusts and he comes undone, his asshole sucking and constricting on Steve’s shaft as his cock spurts all over their stomachs between them. Steve holds him down and fucks him through the spasms, pounding into him ruthlessly till his cock convulses, flooding Bucky’s insides with molten-hot bursts of fluid. Then he collapses on top of him, panting and drenched with sweat.

Bucky gazes off into the middle-distance, as the post-climax haze slowly dissipates, idly stroking Steve’s back with his icy-cold fingertips. He laughs as Steve shivers and goosebumps prickle up all over his sweat-slick skin.

“My hands too cold for you, wolf?”

“No, I like it,” Steve mumbles. “I get all overheated. Your cold feels so good.”

“You do get really hot,” Bucky says, sliding his palms up and down Steve’s back. “It’s like laying under a kiln. A really sweaty kiln.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve says, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I almost never sweat, it’s just that I can’t pant properly when I’m fucking you.”

“It’s ok, Steve,” Bucky laughs. “I don’t mind your sweat. At least it’s not like mine. I’m pale and my sweat is pink from the blood, so when I do, I look really dumb.”

Steve squints thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sweat at all.”

“It happens when I’m sick or really distressed, but never from physical exertion. Not even you fucking me like a maniac.”

“Oh shit, I wasn’t loud, was I?” Steve asks, with a visible wince. “I seriously hope everyone didn’t hear us, just now.”

“I think these walls are pretty thick. Loki hates noise of literally any kind. It would be pretty funny if he heard us, though. That’d serve him right.”

“Yeah, but I’d rather not traumatize Clint and Sam.”

“I can’t believe they’re allowed to use their real first names for their cover IDs,” Bucky grumbles. “Those fucking cheating birds.”

“It’s better for everyone that way, Buck. Especially me. I definitely would’ve fucked up.”

“Ha! I knew it!” Bucky says, pointing at him triumphantly. “You just can’t not use people’s real names!”

“I know, I know. You were right,” Steve laughs. “ We better shower and get dressed, though. Our watch starts in about…twenty minutes ago. Oops.”

“They’d have come and gotten us if they needed us,” Bucky shrugs, pushing himself out of bed and pulling Steve up with him. “Unless they heard us fucking. They didn’t! I was joking! You don’t have to turn all pink about it.”

 

After a rather hasty shower, they dress and emerge from their guest room, to find Sam and Clint entertaining Loki. Meaning that Loki is listening tolerantly, as they entertain themselves with tales of their exploits in Southeast Asia (which are all true, but fit well with the cover story that they are mercenary spies).

Loki hops to his feet, apparently relieved to see the vampire and wolf. “Winter. Steve. You are awake at last. I trust the room was comfortable?”

“Very comfortable,” Steve says, with a sunny smile. “Thanks for having us.”

Loki returns a slight bow. “You are doing me the favor by being here. Would you care for something to drink? Espresso?”

“Loki makes a hell of an Americano,” Sam says, holding his mug aloft. “I’d take him up on it.”

“Sure, thank you so much,” Steve beams.

“Winter, espresso?” Loki asks Bucky, as he steps into the kitchen.

“Only if you let me make it,” Bucky says, following him.

“Don’t be absurd,” Loki sniffs. “Mine are far better than yours. You always let the shot run too long and spoil the crema.”

“I do not,” Bucky says, manifesting deep offense. “You pull them too short and don’t let the oils brew through properly.”

“Wow. Vampires are real particular about their coffee,” Sam observes. “Who knew.”

“It’s one of the only things they can have besides blood,” Clint shrugs. “I’d be particular about it, too.”

“Any word on our wolf pack?” Steve asks, sitting at the table across from them.

“Nothing so far,” Clint says. “Whatever they’re doing, they’re keeping it quiet for now.”

“How’s Winter?” Sam asks, in a lower tone. “He seems kinda stressed out.”

“He’s hanging in there,” Steve says noncommittally. “The thing with Sharon really freaked him out. We still don’t know why it happened.”

“The witch get anything from the scumbag?” Clint asks.

“Not that I’ve heard. She says he’s down deep and it’s going to take longer than she thought.”

The espresso machine kicks on and Steve looks into the kitchen, smiling at Bucky and Loki, who are still engaged in a spirited debate over the finer points of the task. As strained as they claim their relationship to be, it’s good to see Bucky so familiar and obviously at ease with another person. Even a murderous vampire person.

After a few minutes, they return from the kitchen, Loki bearing a steaming mug for Steve, and Bucky already sipping from his own.

“I imagine you’re hungry, Steve,” Loki says, setting the mug in front of him. “I’m afraid I don’t keep food in the house, but if there is anything you want, I’ll send my girl out to get it for you.”

“Your…girl?” Steve says, confused.

“My personal assistant,” Loki clarifies. “You saw her the other day, though I didn’t think to introduce her. Old habits die hard, as they say.”

“Old habits?” Steve says, even more confused.

“He means she’s the help,” Bucky says. “Noblemen don’t usually introduce their domestic staff to guests.”

“Please, Winter,” Loki sighs. “I don’t like my family’s position being mentioned.”

Bucky grins at him over his mug. “I know. That’s why I do it.”

“Charming. Steve, have you seen the view of the river from here? It really is lovely.”

“I haven’t,” Steve says.

Bucky rolls his eyes as Steve eagerly follows Loki into the living room, where the entire wall consists of massive, floor to ceiling windows with spectacular views of the city below. Loki says he doesn’t like being reminded of his noble extraction, but he certainly does like to be as far above everyone else as possible.

He turns to set his empty mug on the black granite, island-style counter between the kitchen and dining table, and nearly jumps out of his skin. A fluffy, snow-white cat has somehow materialized on the counter beside him and is regarding him curiously with its huge, green eyes.

Fucking goddamned cats. For some ungodly reason, they are the only creature on earth that can sneak up on a fucking vampire. He sets down the mug and the cat sniffs at it, then glares at him as if he’s offered it a personal insult.

“It was coffee,” he says to it. “It wasn’t for you, anyway. What the fuck are you mad about?”

“Mrrf,” the cat informs him, switching its tail.

“Rude. I’m a guest, you know.”

“Bwah,” the cat retorts.

“Well, I don’t have anything else. Go ask your master, why don’t you.”

The cat eyes him keenly for a long moment, as if he might be withholding some sort of delicacy, then gives an indignant huff and hops down from the counter, to trot away toward Loki and Steve. Bucky shakes his head and turns back to the table.

“Dorkula, were you just having a conversation with that cat?” Sam asks. “Cause that was just about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“No, that cat was being rude and I told it to go away,” Bucky says irritably. “I’m not a fucking cat-treat dispenser.”

“It was being rude?” Sam laughs. “You speak cat, do you?”

“Yes,” Bucky glowers. “And I’m gonna tell it to eat you, bird.”

“I’m not an actual bird, you know.”

“You sure smell like one.”

“Hey, that’s my scent,” Clint interjects. “Who’s being rude now?”

“Cat,” Bucky says, pointing across the room.

The incorrigible feline has just sauntered up behind Steve, sniffed him, and is in the act of arching its back and raising its hackles. Steve looks down with a start as the thing growls and spits, batting his leg ferociously, before it darts off like a fluffy, white lighting bolt.

“Holy shit, what was that about?” he asks Loki. “Did I step on her tail or something?”

“No, nothing of the sort,” Loki says. “Arabella is not overly fond of the canine persuasion. My apologies.”

“Oh. I hope I didn’t scare her too much. She probably thought I was the weirdest dog she’s ever seen.”

Bucky rolls his eyes again as this comment produces a genuine laugh from his vampire ex-lover, who is not often given to genuine laughter. Stupid, charismatic Steve, making everyone love him without even trying. Loki better not get any fucking ideas. That wolf is spoken for.

Whatever ideas Loki may or may not be getting are put thoroughly out of Bucky’s mind, as his phone vibrates with a text at that moment, as do the phones of Sam, Clint, and Steve.

“We got a hit on the pack,” Clint, who has his phone out first, announces.

“What the fuck are they doing in Brooklyn?” Steve frowns, as he comes back to the table. “Sam, call Tash and get all the details you can. I’m gonna need you and Clint in the sky. Winter, Loki…stay here and don’t get killed.”

“Brooklyn is my territory,” Bucky protests. “And I’m not letting you go face down a bunch of wolves alone.”

“This was always the plan, Buck,” Steve says. “I’m going to initiate alone and try to get a read on them before we decide what to do next. Loki, you ok?”

Loki nods weakly, from where he has sunk into the easy chair by the sofa, looking pale and stricken.

“We’re not going to let them hurt you,” Steve says reassuringly. “If worse comes to worst, Winter can get you somewhere safe, ok?”

“I appreciate that, Steve,” Loki says. “But I do not think you understand the wolves you are dealing with. Unless you have some kind of mystically concealed fortress, there is nowhere I will be safe.”

Sam hangs up the phone at that minute, looking bewildered.

“What’s up, Sam?” Steve asks. “Something wrong?”

“They’re uh…they’re at Aska in Williamsburg.”

Steve frowns. “Doing what?”

Sam lifts his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “Having fucking dinner.”

“What?” Loki says, as everyone in the room turns to look at him.

“You said they were vicious and wild,” Bucky says. “They’re eating at a fucking Michelin starred restaurant, Loki.”

“The fact that they are capable of making a dinner reservation does not mean they are not vicious and wild,” Loki defends. “I assure you, they are extremely dangerous.”

“Dangerous to who, I wonder,” Clint says, eyeing him cagily.

“What does it matter to you, one way or another?” Loki asks. “You are soldiers of fortune, are you not?”

“Yeah, but we’re working for Steve,” Clint replies. “Steve’s kinda particular about good guys and bad guys.”

“Steve is Winter’s mate,” Loki says drily. “So that can’t be strictly true.”

“Fuck you, Loki,” Bucky sneers. “We’ve barely spoken in ninety years. You don’t know jack-shit about me.”

“And I’d watch your mouth in front of Steve, if I were you,” Sam puts in. “He doesn’t take too kindly to anyone insulting his boyfriend.”

“Guys, come on,” Steve says. “This isn’t helping. We still have a pack of unknown werewolves here in the city. The mission proceeds as planned until I say differently, got it?”

“Got it, Cap,” Sam and Clint say.

Loki dips his chin in acquiescence, and Bucky stands there glaring at Loki.

“Winter?” Steve says. “Are we clear?”

“I don’t work for you, Steve,” Bucky snaps, turning on him with fire in his green eyes. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking subordinate.”

Loki’s eyes dart to Steve, watching keenly for his reaction.

Steve squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Buck. I’m a military man. I’m used to giving orders and not being questioned. I shouldn’t have talked to you that way, but I need everyone’s cooperation, right now. Will you stay here with Loki while I do recon?”

“Fine,” Bucky says, falling into the sofa and crossing his arms sullenly.

“Thank you,” Steve says. “Sam, Clint, gear up and get Maria on comms. I want to be on the ground in fifteen. Let’s go hunt some wolves.”

 

 

 

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

 

 

 

 

“What?” Bucky says irritably.

“What, what?” Loki rejoins.

“Why the fuck are you looking at me like that?”

“I am not looking at you like anything, Winter,” Loki says, with a forebearant sigh. “You are out of sorts this evening.”

“I know I’m fucking out of sorts,” Bucky grumbles. “My boyfriend is off being an idiot, hunting down a pack of wolves who might kill him, and I’m stuck sitting here with you. And all of it is your fault.”

“You and your wolf mate agreed to help me of your own free will. The fault, my dear Winter, lies not in our stars but in ourselves.”

“That quote is about fate. I’m not blaming fate, I’m blaming you.”

Loki sighs again and continues to stroke the fluffy white feline, who has sprawled out across his lap and is purring contentedly.

“Stop fucking sighing at me like a Catholic mother,” Bucky says, getting up from the sofa to pace agitatedly to and fro. “How can you hold a white cat and wear black, anyway? Why are your clothes not covered in hair?”

“Arabella is a purebred Turkish Angora. She sheds very little.”

“Of course she is. I assume you got her from a CFA recommended breeder, too.”

“Of course I did. My Arabella is a scion of champions. Named for the Lady Arabella de Courcy.”

“I know who she’s named after. A bit grand for a cat, don’t you think?”

“Not for this one,” Loki says, stroking her face affectionately. “Besides, I can’t very well call her by her registry name. It is utterly atrocious.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, no. I am not telling you. You will only use the information for ill.”

“That’s ok,” Bucky says brightly. “I’ll just make up my own. Arabella, your new name is Rear Admiral Cock Shotgun, Admiral Cockshot for short, and you—”

“Fine! I will tell you, but you may not use it. Her registry name is Chateaumane’s Ms. Maisie Milkshake. I am sorry for telling your secret, Arabella, but I will not have you called Admiral Cockshot.”

“I’m thinking Milky,” Bucky muses. “Or Milky Mae. Maybe just Moo-moo. Keep the dairy theme going.”

Loki looks away, suppressing a laugh. “I really dislike you.”

“No you don’t,” Bucky grins. “You just like to say you do.”

“Well, I like to say it a lot.”

“What do you think, Moo-moo?” Bucky coos to the cat. “You like your new name?”

The cat blinks sleepily at him and increases the volume of her purring.

“Do not encourage him, Arabella, you will only make it worse,” Loki chides, at which Bucky laughs. There is a beat of silence, then Loki looks up at him. “So, you are…you are really in love with this wolf, then?”

“I really am.”

“How is that? Being involved with a wolf?”

“It’s…different. He’s different. He has all kinds of stupid, annoying wolf habits and I swear he tells every single person we meet, ‘Hi, I’m Steve. This is my boyfriend. We’re in love.’ But…he makes me happy. I love him, and I want to be with him forever.”

“You always used to say you only loved your shotguns and the open road. Which did strike me as rather peculiar, since to my knowledge, you never owned a shotgun, and the last vehicle I saw you operate was a Model-T. It is so strange, the way people change who you thought never would.”

“Steve changed me,” Bucky shrugs. “I was never the same after the day I met him.”

“The day you met him,” Loki says, arching an eyebrow. “When he was twelve years old.”

“Yeah, and you know it wasn’t like that, so wipe that smirk off your face. I know it sounds bizarre to you, so imagine what a mindfuck that was for me. I was a three-hundred-year-old demon who pulled this wheezy little matchstick of a kid out of a river, and he was the one who changed _me_. He changed my whole life.”

“How? What did he do?”

“Nothing. He just…he looked at me like a man, instead of a monster. He made me want to be better, just by the fact of his existence. I don’t know how else to explain it. I met Pepper in 1942, and she told me—”

“Pepper, the chaos demon?”

“Yes. You know Pepper?”

“Please, Winter,” Loki says, tossing his head. “Everyone who is anyone knows Pepper. What did she tell you?”

“She told me that back in 1942, when we met, she was ready to offer me a deal for my soul, but it already belonged to Steve. Isn’t that insane?”

Loki frowns. “So…that’s real? Your soul can belong to another person?”

“I mean, it must be. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, I…suppose I never really believed it, is all.”

“I didn’t either, but Pepper believes it and souls are her stock in trade. She’d know better than you or me.”

“Well, whatever the case, this wolf certainly seems to have you tamed. And vice versa.”

“Tamed?” Bucky laughs. “No, I don’t have him tamed at all.”

“But when you disagreed earlier and you spoke harshly to him, he apologized. In the presence of other people.”

“Yeah, but that’s not anything to do with taming him. Steve’s just like that. If he thinks he’s wrong, he apologizes. And he means it.”

“What if he doesn’t think he’s wrong?”

“Then he’ll plant himself like a tree and dare the world to try and move him. Luckily for the world, if Steve doesn’t think he’s wrong, he probably isn’t.”

“You seem to have quite a high opinion of him.”

“I do. He doesn’t lie, cheat, steal, hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it, and he never puts himself first. I think…no, I _know_ he’s the best man I’ve ever known. Maybe the best one there’s ever been.”

“Ah, a truly righteous man. A rare thing, indeed. Pity he’s a bit too late to save Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“If Sodom and Gomorrah had Steve, they wouldn’t—” Bucky breaks off suddenly, grasping at his throat.

“What is it?” Loki asks. “What’s the matter?”

“I…I don’t know. I felt like I was choking for second.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“It’s happened before. The other day—” Bucky stops short again, clutching his throat and looking wildly about.

This is exactly what he’d felt in the park before he attacked Sharon. Fortunately, there are no innocent humans within arm’s reach at the moment. A few tense seconds pass, then it happens again. This time more strongly, squeezing harder and actually dragging him a step forward, as if by some external force.

“Winter, what is happening?” Loki asks, beginning to look genuinely alarmed.

_Blood._

“What the—fucking fuck,” Bucky pants.

“Winter, speak to me. What is wrong?”

_Blood. Hunt._

“I need…I need blood,” Bucky rasps. “I have to hunt.”

“We are not meant to leave the penthouse,” Loki protests. “It isn’t safe.”

_Blood. Blood. Blood._

“Have to,” Bucky growls, pushing past him to go to the elevator. “I need blood now.”

Loki wavers for a moment, then steps in just as the elevator door is about to slide shut. “I suppose I’d rather be out there with you than in here alone. But if you get us killed, I am going to be very cross.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, or even look at him. He leans on the elevator wall, ash-white and silent as they ride down to the lobby. The moment they step into the street, he vanishes in black vapor, whirling rapidly away to the east. Loki does the same and follows.

They don’t rematerialize till they reach the Lower East Side, well away from Tribeca. Loki glances apprehensively at his friend as they step out of the deep shadows of an alleyway into the street. Whatever this new madness, at least Winter still has the sense to travel concealed and not to hunt near home. However, he does look a bit…unhinged.

They turn down a narrow street between a twenty-four hour parking garage and a dirty-looking city park with garbage bags piled up beside the chain link fences. Apparently unsatisfied with the indigent occupants of the park benches, Winter moves on rapidly.

Soon, Loki can hear what is drawing him. The faint thump of some obnoxious music emanating from the walls of a dance club nearby. There is a long line outside, but they walk directly to the doors and are let in without hesitation. Vampire thrall is very convenient when one is in a hurry.

Loki adjusts his hearing to tune out the majority of the grinding, bass-heavy music as he follows Winter, weaving through the densely packed crowd of hot, sweaty, human bodies. Despite the worrisome nature of the situation, he can’t help but be a bit excited. It is always a delight to see Winter hunt.

The beautiful, long-haired man draws admiring stares from many of the club-goers. Loki notes these with an icy smile. Ah yes, adore the monster. He is lovely to look at, is he not? Only pray he does not return your notice.

The unfortunate human whose notice the monster has returned is immediately apparent to Loki. A tall, athletic looking blonde man, no more than twenty-two or three, wearing a white tank top and tight blue jeans. Winter drops his chin slightly and bites his bottom lip, looking up at the boy from beneath his long eyelashes, then turns and walks away toward the restroom. The boy follows. Obviously.

Loki walks a few paces behind. They have performed this little play a thousand times, and he knows all the beats. Winter’s thrall sends the other men out of the restroom, looking muddled and hazy eyed, and Loki shuts the door behind them. The boy doesn’t even see him. Winter has him firmly his spell, whispering into his ear, caressing the back of his neck.

The boy falls into him, shuddering and giving a low moan. Loki watches with the air of a connoisseur as his companion drains his human victim, with the skill and grace of a long-accustomed predator.

But something is wrong. Winter has disengaged his bite, and the boy’s heart is still beating. Loki’s dismay rises as Winter heals the bite, then sets the unconscious but breathing human down gently on the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses.

“I’m done playing and I’m putting away my toy,” Winter answers, slurring his words faintly.

“So it’s true. You really have been hunting without killing. What has become of you, Winter? What has made you so soft and…weak.”

The green eyes turn on him, flashing warningly. “You think it’s weakness, not to kill?”

“I think softness toward our prey makes us appear weak, yes.”

“Try it, then,” Winter sneers. “Try drinking their blood without killing them. You wouldn’t last three nights. Stay here.”

“Stay—where are you going?”

“To get another drink. You want one?”

“From this place? No, thank you. I prefer a different class of…spirits.”

“Suit yourself,” Winter says, vanishing out the door.

He returns in a moment with another young man, who he deals with in the same way, then leaves on the floor beside the other. He is properly tipsy now, and leans heavily on Loki as they exit the nightclub. If he didn’t stink so horribly of wolf, it would almost be pleasant to feel him so close again.

But those days are long past, and they would only wind up in some dreadful row and part ways badly again. After they had mind-melting sex, that is. Winter could always be counted upon to have his priorities in order. Sex, fight, goodbye forever and this time I really do mean it. That had been their pattern. There had been nothing Loki could ever do to get him to stay. And nothing he could do to make himself deny him when he came back.

Then one day he stopped coming back. Those years had been painful. To be abandoned by one’s sire is not an easy thing to endure. The complicated mix of sexual, romantic, and quasi-familial feelings form a potent and volatile emotional cocktail. Usually it is the younger vampire who eventually leaves the elder, but in their case it had been different.

They shared adjoined territory, so they spoke on occasion, but they were never intimate again. Then the war came, and Winter had actually vanished. He’d left his territory and simply disappeared without a word.

When he returned, decades later, there was something so utterly changed about him, that Loki had been afraid of him at first. He was still sarcastic and temperamental, but he was not cheerful or witty anymore. There was a deep, cold hardness in him that had not been there before.

When asked where he’d been, he’d given some vague answer about Europe, then outright ignored any further questions on the subject. After a few more years slipped by without a single word passing between them, Loki had gone away overseas to escape the oppressive silence, and that was where his wolf problem had begun.

Loki’s reverie is interrupted by Winter’s phone chirping in his pocket, and Winter stopping abruptly to dig it out. Loki steps a polite distance away and lights a long, black cigarette as his companion presses the phone to his ear.

“Hey, witch,” Winter says into the phone. “What’s up?”

A pause. His brow furrows as he listens.

“He said he wasn’t inside when the building collapsed. He said he’d been sent on a guard patrol. Well, I know how absurd that sounds, witch, but how else could he have survived?”

Another pause.

“I have no idea. I knew way less than you did about anything, and they certainly never allowed me down there. Shit, I have bird man on the other line. I’ll call you back. Thank you, witch.”

Winter pulls his phone away, taps the screen, then puts it back up to his ear.

“What’s up, bird?”

His expression changes and his pale skin goes even whiter.

“I’m on my way. I don’t give a fuck what he said, I’m not letting him die.”

“What’s wrong?” Loki asks, as he hangs up.

“Steve met the wolves at Fort Greene Park, in our neighborhood. The birds say there was some kind of explosion just now. They can’t tell what it was yet, but it knocked out Steve’s comms. I’m going over there. You should go home. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”

“I…alright. But Winter, be careful. These wolves are no joking matter.”

“Neither am I,” Winter says, with a wicked smile.

Then he vanishes in a whirl of black vapor, leaving Loki alone on the sidewalk, attempting to piece together the conversation he’s just overheard. Winter’s new friends include a wolf, a hawk spirit, an Elioud, and now a witch, too. And there was something about guard patrols and a building collapsing. How very interesting.

 

 

 

 

 

“I have visual,” Steve says, under his breath. “Going comms dark.”

“Got it,” Sam’s voice replies through his earpiece. “We’ll be close by.”

Steve watches from his covered position, atop a roof across the street, as the wolf who calls himself Thor exits the building containing the restaurant. He is wearing a long, dark-red coat, and his long, blonde hair is tied back, low on the nape of his neck. His beard is neatly trimmed and he is exceptionally handsome. He does look rather proud and fierce, but Steve’s first impression of him is not one of cruelty or viciousness at all.

His companions exit with him, the wolves Loki had described as his pack. A man with short, yellowish blonde hair, who reminds Steve of a pirate for some reason. This must be Fandral. Sif, a tall, angular, dark-haired woman, Hogun, a serious looking Japanese man, and Volstagg, a rather stout man with very long, very red hair, and an equally imposing beard.

Steve feels a pang of homesickness for his own pack as he watches them stroll down the sidewalk, talking and laughing companionably together. He isn’t lonely anymore, now that he has Bucky and his Shield friends, but those men were his pack. His wolf will always yearn for that unique bond. He forces away the feeling of loss for his friends and focuses on these wolves and their conversation.

“…swore I would, and I will,” Thor is saying. “Nothing will deter me from my purpose.”

“Unless it’s served in a frosty mug, you mean,” Sif replies, jostling him teasingly.

This produces a hearty laugh from the others, and Thor laughs right along with them. Steve likes his laugh immensely. Rich and rolling, like the god of thunder’s laugh should be. If this man were the deity in question, that is. Which he is not.

“We are close, now, I feel it,” Thor says, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “His scent is all about this city.”

“Is it stronger here, than further north?” Hogun asks.

Thor lifts his head to scent the air. “Much stronger. We are moving in the right direction, at least.”

Steve frowns. That can’t be right. They are walking southwest, which puts Tribeca out of their general direction, as well as across the river from them. Maybe their senses are being thrown off by the high population density? That doesn’t make sense, but he can think of no other explanation.

They don’t smell _him_ , thanks to Mr. Stark’s masking spell. Unfortunately, he can’t smell them either, thanks to the unforeseen side-effect of Mr. Stark’s masking spell. This had been discovered before he left the penthouse, very much to his chagrin, but he’d chosen to proceed anyway. He’ll be flying blind, but at least they will, too, and they’re not the ones in need of stealth.

He waits till they get about thirty yards down the street, then he drops from the rooftop and follows, keeping a good distance behind them. He is completely silent in his wolf form, but he has a supernatural knack for stealth in his human form, as well. Not to mention all his military training. He isn’t too worried about being observed, anyway. They are still laughing and talking, and don’t appear very much on their guard.

He doesn’t let this make him careless, since he knows better than any how a group of wolves at play can instantly transform into a deadly combat unit, but their behavior just doesn’t track with hunting prey. Their manner is open and lively, and almost merry. In fact, nothing about them suggests hostile intentions.

They continue down Wythe avenue which eventually takes them to Flushing, where they turn west. They’ve been meandering along for nearly half an hour now, but when they reach the Navy Yard, they speed their pace. They are already firmly within Steve’s territory, but now they are passing along the northern boundary of Fort Greene, which is his own neighborhood.

They are headed toward Downtown Brooklyn, which means they are likely making for the Brooklyn Bridge. That will take them back to Manhattan, and point them directly at Tribeca, the exact place he does not want them to go. He needs to initiate contact as soon as possible. There is a city park coming up in a few blocks, so he slips down a side street to circle around ahead of them.

“Falcon, I’m going to initiate at Commodore Barry Park,” he says. “You maintaining visual?”

“I got ‘em Cap, but they’re not coming your way,” Sam’s voice returns. “They turned south on Portland toward Fort Greene Park.”

“God damn it,” Steve growls. “What are they doing in my neighborhood? Loki’s scent should be leading them straight to Tribeca.”

“Don’t ask me,” Sam says. “Wolves do some weird shit. Maybe they’ve got a ball to toss around.”

“I’m going after them. Keep me posted.”

“Got it.”

Steve sprints off toward his own fucking park, where his friends Dusty and Waffles like to play and where these strange wolves have absolutely no right to be nosing around. His territorial instincts were already making him cagey and suspicious, but this is an outright affront.

He cuts over to the next block and heads south, then comes up north through the park, at a more cautious pace. After a few minutes, he picks up their voices again. There they are. He can see them, now. They’re hanging around the tall column of the Prison Ship Martyr’s Monument, still chatting and laughing, like they’re not a bunch of fucking trespassing assholes.

Recalling his objective, he arranges his face into his accustomed, nonthreatening smile, and strolls casually up the sidewalk toward the column. They are sitting and standing about the square concrete base, which serves as a bench and a sort of platform, when some event is going on. They glance at him idly as he walks up, but they don’t seem particularly interested in his presence. Of course not. He doesn’t smell like a wolf to them.

“Hi there,” he says cheerfully, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

“Greetings, friend,” Thor replies offhandedly, remaining seated. “It is a lovely evening, indeed.”

“I like this park,” Steve continues. “The monument is really neat. Do you guys come here often?”

His persistence draws some looks from Thor’s companions, but they keep their mouths shut for the moment.

“This is our first visit,” Thor says patiently. “We have not been long in this city.”

“Oh, wow. Welcome to Brooklyn,” Steve smiles, stepping forward and holding out his hand. “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers. Pleased to meet you.”

Thor stands up to shake the proffered hand. He’s strong. He’s also very tall. Steve is six foot three, and Thor stands at least two inches above him.

“Thank you for the kind welcome, Steve Rogers,” he says. “I am called Thor. These are my companions.”

“Thor is a cool name. What brings you to New York?”

“Business of our own,” Thor says, with a frown creasing his blonde brow. “Are the people of this city customarily so friendly?”

“There are a lot of friendly people here, but not everyone is. I was just wondering what brought you here, because it’s not often I see another wolf, let alone a whole pack.”

The eyes of said pack are instantly focused keenly on Steve.

“How very strange, Steve Rogers,” Thor says slowly, looking him up and down. “You say you are a wolf, but I cannot smell you.”

“Sorry about that,” Steve says. “I’ve got a masking spell on. I needed to follow you without being detected.”

Thor’s companions jump to their feet, one giving a low growl, but Thor holds up his hand to stay them. “Why would you want to follow us undetected?”

“So I could assess what kind of wolves you are, before I confronted you openly. I don’t think your intentions are bad, but I would like to know what you’re doing here.”

“We are seeking someone,” Thor says, still regarding Steve warily. “Perhaps you can help us find him.”

“Maybe,” Steve says. “Who is he and what do you want with him?”

“What we want with him is none of your concern. You have very many questions, Steve Rogers. Is it customary in this land to interrogate strangers?”

Steve hesitates. Thor may have already guessed that this is his territory, and this could be an attempt to draw him out, but to what end, he can’t tell. Without his scent signals, Steve can’t get a firm read on him.

“Not really,” he says calmly. “But it is customary when you meet another wolf on his own territory, to explain your business.”

Thor takes a menacing step toward him. “Your territory? It would be very easy to make such a claim, when one’s scent is masked and it cannot be verified. Perhaps you have killed the wolf who holds this territory and taken it unjustly.”

Steve squares his shoulders and maintains his gaze. “Do I seem like a murderer and a liar to you?”

“No, you do not,” Thor says, with an icy spark in his grey eyes. “But there is a way to test your veracity.”

As he is saying this, he holds out his hand. Nothing happens. Steve smiles politely. Nothing continues to happen.

He cocks his head to one side. “Is this a gesture I should understand, or—”

“Just give it a moment,” Thor interrupts, holding up a finger.

Finally, Steve hears an odd whistling sound, as if something is traveling through the air at a tremendous speed. He turns to see a huge, square-headed hammer careening toward them to land firmly in Thor’s grasp.

“Oh, cool!” Steve says, delighted. “My boyfriend can do that! I mean, sort of. He does that with our tennis ball.”

“Well, I doubt he could—” Thor breaks off and blinks. “Tennis ball?”

“Yep. It doesn’t look as cool with a tennis ball as your hammer thing, but it’s a pretty useful skill.”

“It is,” Thor says. “My hammer is also useful. Allow me to demonstrate.”

With that, he raises the hammer and brings it down in a lightning-swift arc toward Steve’s head. Steve drops to one knee, throwing his arms up protectively. His shield materializes in his hand just in time for the hammer to strike the metal surface.

To the surprise of everyone involved, the impact produces a tremendous shockwave, that knocks all of them flat on their backs. The tall, stone monument shakes and the surrounding trees bend and whip their branches about. Steve lies there stunned for a moment, blinking up at the starry sky, then he hears Thor’s companions cursing and struggling up.

“Holy shit!” he exclaims, leaping to his feet. “What was that?”

The hammer is lying on the ground a few feet away, where it has made a small crater in the concrete.

“I do not know,” Thor says, pushing himself into a sitting position and squinting up at Steve. “But now we know not to do it again. What is that shield made of?”

Steve holds out his hand and pulls Thor to his feet. “I have no idea. It’s pretty strong, though. I cut one of the heads off a hydra with it once. Which, in retrospect, wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but that wasn’t the shield’s fault. It’s a very good shield.”

“Did you say a Hydra?” Thor says, as he attempts to slap the dust from his jacket.

“Yeah, it’s a…long story.”

“It appears it is quite a good shield, then.” He looks at Steve with an odd twinkle in his eye. “Would you mind handing me my hammer?”

“Sure,” Steve says affably.

Thor’s companions snicker and chuckle as he walks over to pick it up. There seems to be some joke here Steve isn’t privy to, which he thinks is pretty rude, but he decides that if they want to act childish, it’s better to ignore them. He bends down and takes hold of the handle, prepared to lift with his legs. If its impact with his shield is any indication, it must be incredibly heavy.

He gives it a strong tug, and is startled at how easily he can pick it up. He can feel its weight and solidity, but it almost seems to _want_ to keep itself in his hand, for lack of a better descriptive. It feels agile and well-balanced, rather than clumsy and clunky like he’d expected. The thing is obviously very skillfully made. He turns to hand it back, and finds that Thor and his companions seem startled, too.

He looks perplexedly around at their stricken faces. “What?”

 

 

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

 

 

 

 

Thor accepts the hammer without looking at it, instead gazing fixedly into Steve’s bright-blue eyes. Steve can feel his cheeks flushing with embarrassment at being observed so closely. He kind of wishes everyone would stop staring at him now. It’s making him feel super weird.

Thor opens his mouth to say something, but at that moment, all the wolves lift their heads and look southeast. Far in the distance, the wail of sirens can be heard, rising above the general din of the city. Steve taps his comms earpiece to find that it’s dead. The shockwave must have knocked it out. Damn it.

“They’re coming our way,” he says. “People probably reported an explosion. We have to get out of here.”

“There is much more of which we must speak, Steve Rogers,” Thor replies. “Come with us.”

“Yeah…you tried to kill me with a flying hammer just now, so how about you come with _me_. I know a safe place nearby where we can talk.”

“Safe for whom?”

“All of us. No one hurts anyone there without the owner’s permission.”

Thor hesitates, glancing at his companions, then back at Steve. “Lead the way.”

“Tash, if you can hear me, I need you at Heart of Darkness ASAP,” Steve says aloud, then he is off like a shot down the street, with the five other wolves close behind.

In the ninety or so seconds between departing the park and arriving at Heart of Darkness, the miraculously dependable Tash has managed to appear there and dismiss whatever barista had been manning the counter in her stead.

She’s standing at the door, which she opens for them to pass inside, as a squad of police cars speed by in the direction from which they have just come, sirens wailing and red and blue lights ablaze.

“Hammer and shield behind the counter, boys,” she says, as she shuts the door behind them. “You won’t be able to use them in here anyway, but this is my place and those are my rules.”

Steve immediately goes behind the bar and leans his shield against the wall, then greets Tash with a kiss on the cheek. Thor stands with his arms crossed, eyeing her suspiciously.

She raises her eyebrows. “Was something I said unclear?”

“You are a demon.” 

“Yes, I am,” she says, with a toss of her red hair. “Thank you for noticing.”

“What are you doing here, in this realm, running a…coffee shop?”

“A girl has to have hobbies. Put your hammer down like a good boy, and we can talk about it.”

A slow smile spreads across Thor’s face. “I like you, demon. Very well, I will do as you say.”

“I’m honored,” she replies drily, watching as he steps behind the bar and places his hammer beside Steve’s shield. “Ok, everyone, I assume you’ve all been properly introduced?”

“I mean, I introduced _my_ self,” Steve says. “He just said ‘I’m Thor and these are my companions’.”

“Of course you did, Steve,” Tash smiles. “And I know you already know all their names, anyway, because you pay attention to mission briefings. You’re very good.”

Steve beams under the praise, at which Thor rolls his eyes and mutters “kiss-ass” under his breath.

“What was that?” Tash asks, putting her hands on her hips.

“Hm? Nothing. There must be…a television on or something. My name is Thor. These are my companions, the Lady Sif, Hogun, Volstagg, and Fandral.”

“Pleased to meet you all. You can call me Tash.” She indicates to a pair of sofas arranged near the front of the shop, where the five wolves go and seat themselves. She and Steve sit in the chairs opposite them. “Steve, why don’t you tell me what happened and we’ll go from there.”

“Well, I followed them to my park,” Steve says. “I introduced myself and asked what they were doing here, and Thor said they were looking for someone—which we already knew. But then he got all cagey and accused me of lying about my territory, and he tried to hit me with his hammer. I blocked it with my shield and it made a big shockwave and knocked us all down, and then we came here cause cops.”

“He tried to hit you with his hammer?” Tash says, shooting Thor a disapproving glance.

“No—well, yes,” Thor says. “But I wasn’t really trying to hurt him.”

“Oh, I see,” Steve says, narrowing his eyes. “You just swing hammers at people’s heads who you’re not trying to hurt.”

“I swear, I wasn’t,” Thor returns. “I would’ve stopped the blow in time to avoid striking you, but your shield appeared in the way and caught it. Besides, if you really thought I meant to hurt you, why did you help me up and give it back?”

Tash looks at Steve. “You helped him up and gave him back his weapon? I’d like to know why, too.”

“Cause it was the right thing to do,” Steve says, crossing his arms defensively. “You don’t attack a man when he’s down and disarmed unless you have to. And also…I didn’t think he really meant to hurt me, anyway.”

“Ha! I knew it!” Thor says triumphantly.

“What made you think he didn’t intend to hurt you?”

“Because he probably could’ve killed me without the hammer, if he wanted to,” Steve shrugs. “I think he just wanted to see what I’d do.”

“Correct,” Thor grins. “You are sharper than you look, Steve Rogers.”

“Uh…thanks?”

“About that shockwave,” Tash says. “I think I know what caused it.”

“Ah, yes,” Thor says, sitting forward eagerly. “I’ve struck many shields with my hammer, and that has never happened before. What was the cause?”

“My dad is a master sorcerer and enchanter. There’s a thing he taught me about called psionic resonance, where if the power infused into one object is similar enough to the power in another, they can generate arcane feedback when they contact each other, and release bursts of uncontrolled energy. It’s really rare, and most enchanted weapons and armor nowadays are internally insulated so that doesn’t happen, but I don’t think your weapons have that kind of safeguard.”

“So…that would mean my shield and his hammer have a similar kind of power in them?” Steve asks.

“That’s the thing,” Tash says. “Most psionic resonance reactions are like…a firecracker. You guys shook a twenty block radius in the middle of Brooklyn. To generate a shockwave of that magnitude, the power in your weapons would have to be immense, and the resonance would have to be basically identical.”

“I think you are correct, demon,” Thor says. “I have reason to believe they may have originated from the same source.”

Steve shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”

Tash glances at Thor, then back at Steve. “Why do you say that?”

“My shield is…it can’t be from the same source as his hammer, because I didn’t get it from anywhere. I just held up my hand one day and it was there. I don’t know how to explain it, but I could feel that it was created by my will, in that moment. It’s part of me.”

Thor sits silent, staring at the floor, his blonde brow furrowed, as he if he is wrestling with some difficult matter. His companions watch him keenly, apparently anticipating something.

“Are you aware, Steve Rogers,” he says at last, “of the legends regarding the hammer Mjolnir, passed down by the Norse people of this realm?”

“Not really,” Steve says. “I know that was the name of the Norse god Thor’s hammer, but that’s about it.”

“It was, indeed. It still is. Among the legends passed down, there is one which holds that Mjolnir cannot be wielded by any unworthy of the power of Thor. That is, any unworthy to be the protector of Midgard and her people, and to be called a true son of Odin. You…you lifted my hammer easily. Took it in your hands as if it belonged to you. Why do you think you were able to do that?”

“Because it’s not the Mjolnir from the legends,” Steve says, gazing at him steadily. “You’re not the god of thunder. It’s a very good hammer and you’re a very strong wolf, but those stories aren’t true.”

“Many of the tales are exaggerated or outright false, but there are also many that contain a kernel of truth. I am Thor, Odin’s son, of Asgard. I have lived fifteen-hundred years in this realm. These are my companions, who joined me in exile, but for one, who is away from us for a time. You know it is true, Steve Rogers. You knew it all along. And yet you do not wish to believe it.”

Steve’s jaw sets and his blue eyes glint. “I don’t believe it because gods like that don’t exist. There’s one god, not a whole bunch of them running around interfering with people’s lives like cosmic hall monitors. You are not a god.”

“You are correct,” Thor says simply. “I am not a god in the religious sense, and I do not claim to be. Men have called some of us gods as a framework for explaining our protective role and our power, but we want neither worship nor authority over humanity.”

“Then what are you?”

“We are Asgardian. Beings related to humans, but not the same. We come from another realm—that is, another sphere of existence—called Asgard. My father is one such being, as is my mother, and so am I.”

“What about your pack?”

“My companions are more like us than like humans, but not so powerful. They come from Asgard and the other realms.”

Steve studies Thor’s face for a long moment. He can’t read his scent signals, or this would all be cleared up without any trouble. But even without the scent, every instinct in his body is telling him one thing.

“Alright,” he says at last. “Alright, I believe you. But why are you here in New York? We were told you were hunting someone, and that doesn’t sound like a very protective thing to do.”

“Our hunting and seeking often look the same,” Thor smiles. “It is only the end result that differs. I came here in search of my…my brother.”

Steve frowns confusedly. “Hang on, Loki’s your brother? How is that even possible?”

“Loki?” Thor says, looking equally confused. “No, Loki is not my—wait, you know him? Are you saying Loki is here? In this city?”

“We believed that was the reason you came here,” Tash explains. “We were told you were hunting him.”

“I am hunting him,” Thor says, his grey eyes sparking fiercely. “I did not know he was in New York, or I would have come sooner. But what interest do you have in his affairs? How did you come to know him?”

“My mate is a vampire,” Steve says. “They know each other.”

Thor’s companions seems to have a strong reaction to this, but Steve can’t tell exactly what it is. They look at him wide-eyed, then back at Thor, who is staring at Steve in frank astonishment.

“You are…you are mated to a vampire? How extraordinary. What made you choose a mate outside our kind?”

“That didn’t really matter to me. He’s my one and I’m his. We’re a lot different, but we’re like halves of—”

“The same soul,” Thor says, finishing his thought. “You balance one another, like the two sides of a coin.”

“Exactly,” Steve smiles. “But, uh…as I was saying, Loki is an ally to my vampire mate, but the primary reason we’re invested in him not being removed is that he’s one of the stabilizing forces in the city. The power vacuum would cause a turf war that’ll wind up killing a lot of innocent people. I came to meet you because I was hoping to work out a peaceful resolution with you.”

“Peaceful resolution,” Thor mutters, then he seems to shake himself and looks at Steve again. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I thought we could make some kind of deal. Like, you said you’re here looking for your brother. Maybe we can help you find him.” Steve pauses, observing the blank expression on Thor’s face. “That’s just…an example, though. If you want something else.”

Thor blinks at him, then looks at Tash, as if for assistance.

“Things take him a while sometimes,” she smirks. “He’ll get there eventually.”

“What things take me a while?” Steve frowns, looking back and forth between them. “I’ll get where?”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Sif breaks in, her patience apparently stretched to the end of its tether. “Steve, it’s you. You are Thor’s brother.”

Steve laughs aloud, then sees that no one else is laughing, and that everyone is looking at him again. His face drains of color and he attempts to swallow in a suddenly dry throat.

“You can’t…you can’t be serious,” he says, in a shakier voice than he’d have liked. He turns to Tash. “They can’t be serious.”

“They seem serious to me,” Tash says, to his extreme annoyance.

She must know this is insane, so why isn’t she helping? She should be telling these Asgardian wolves that they’re off their rockers, and he’s not some kind of mythological Norse super-being’s relative. He’s plain old Steve. Steve Rogers, from Brooklyn.

“I’m sorry, but there’s some kind of huge mix-up going on here,” he says to Thor. “I’m plain old Steve. Steve Rogers, from Brooklyn. I’m human. I mean I was, until the wolf thing. Tash knows my whole history, she’ll tell you.”

Thor shakes his head slowly. “I am not mistaken. You were not born to my mother and father, but you are my brother. You were made so by my blessing and my blood.”

“Your…blood? Your blessing? I don’t know what that even means. I was made in a lab by the US government. A scientist—”

“Erskine,” Thor interrupts. “Dr. Abraham Erskine.”

“How do you know that name?” Steve demands.

“He was a friend. More than that, he was a good man. I loved and trusted him. When he came to us seeking aid, the Nazi locust were consuming much that was good and beautiful in the world. It was a great sorrow to us, but we were forbidden to take active part in the war against them. We agreed to help Erskine in his endeavor, since we could do nothing else. We each gave our blessing and enough of our blood to bestow the gift upon one human. Mine was given only on the condition that he choose a man worthy of such power. He chose you.”

“No, you’re…that can’t be true,” Steve says, growing increasingly agitated. “I’m not anyone special. I wasn’t anyone at all until they made me a wolf. Why would—why me?”

“Whatever his reasons were, your ability to lift Mjolnir is proof enough for me that his choice was the right one. My hammer is part of me, as your shield is part of you. As you are part of me.”

With that, Thor raises his left hand. Steve watches dumbstruck as a shield very much like his own materializes in it. He leaps to his feet to look behind the bar, but he already knows it’s not there. It’s in Thor’s hand.

Thor rises from the sofa and extends it to him. “You and I are brothers by blood. If you still doubt what I say, wait until your masking spell wears off. You will not be able to deny it, then.”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, but finds his throat constricted and aching. His mind is reeling with a hurricane of emotions he can’t quite understand, and it’s getting incredibly hard to breathe in here all the sudden.

“I have…I have to get some air,” he says hoarsely. “I just need…some air.”

“Steve, wait, please don’t—” Thor calls after him, but he has already vanished, leaving the door swinging closed behind him.

 

 

 

 

Bucky reintegrates his physical form in an alleyway near the park. There are patrol cars all about, their red and blue lights illuminating the bustle of uniformed policemen. They are investigating the area around the base of the huge column on the north side of the park.

He sends his thrall radiating outward as he walks directly up to the yellow tape line. One of the policemen standing there holds up the tape for him to step into the cordoned-off square, then returns to chatting idly with the other.

Bucky smells wolves all over the place, but they are nowhere to be seen. Of course they wouldn’t hang around to be bothered by the local law enforcement, but where would they go?

“You,” he calls to one of the policemen. “Come here.”

The man approaches. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, Officer…Krupke?” Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Is that seriously your name?”

“Yes, sir. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, nevermind. What’s going on here?”

“We got reports of an explosion in the vicinity of the park, and we’re looking into possible causes. There’s no evidence of any explosives, though, and nothing is damaged. There’s a weird hole in the concrete over there, but no burns or scattered debris. It just looks like something heavy fell on it.”

“There was no explosion,” Bucky says. “It was seismic activity. The reports you got were from people getting hysterical over nothing.”

“We’re actually thinking it was just seismic activity,” Officer Krupke informs him. “Civilians tend to panic over every little thing these days.”

“They certainly do,” Bucky smiles. “That’ll be all, officer Krupke. And go see Westside Story, you fucking philistine.”

“Thank you, sir, I’ll do that,” the absurdly named policeman answers cheerfully.

As he walks away, Bucky hears him relating the seismic activity explanation to his colleagues, who—with a little psychic push—agree with him completely. Good. That’s one thing taken care of, now where are Steve and the wolves? And where are those fucking birds? They were supposed to have eyes on everything from the air.

He gets no answer from either of their cell phones. Fortunately, Steve’s blood hasn’t completely worn off yet, and he can track the wolves himself. Not individually, but the general mélange of wolf-stink is still apparent to his enhanced senses. Not that it smells so bad to him anymore. But it does amuse him to call it wolf-stink.

He follows the scent south through the park, in an almost straight line toward Portland Avenue. Literally the street he lives on. For a moment, he has a horrifying vision of his house in chaos, full of stinking fucking wolves, and Steve at the center of it all. He pushes this out of his mind with a shudder. Even Steve couldn’t be that incomprehensibly dense. Right…?

Just south of the park, however, the scent trail hooks left. He gives a sigh of relief. Of course Steve wouldn’t bring a bunch of werewolves into his house. That would be unthinkable. Just like, for example, bringing a bunch of werewolves to the neighborhood espresso shop they both frequent. That would be a thing a crazy person does.

So, he must be hallucinating, because what it looks like from where he is standing, is that there are a bunch of fucking werewolves sitting at the tables outside the neighborhood fucking espresso shop.

He curses under his breath in Russian and continues toward the lounging wolves. The stout, red-bearded one glances his way as he approaches, then does an actual double take.

“Vampire!” he shouts, leaping up from his chair.

“Wolves,” Bucky replies calmly, as all four turn to look at him.

“Oh, wait a moment,” red-beard says, sniffing the air obnoxiously. “It smells of wolf. This must be Steve’s mate. Vampire, are you Steve’s mate?”

“My name is Winter,” Bucky snarls, at which red-beard takes an involuntary step back. “What have you done with my wolf?”

The others rise from their chairs as well, and the Japanese one bows courteously. “We do not know where he has gone. He departed in haste, and Thor pursued him.”

Bucky stares them down icily. “So, your leader went after Steve and left the four of you to deal with me on your own. Foolish.”

The seams between the articulated plates in his metal arm begin to glow red as he advances toward the wolves, clenching and unclenching the steel fist. Their eyes light up and they bare their fangs defensively. At that moment, the door swings open and Tash steps between them.

“Hey, cool your jets, babe,” she says to Bucky. “Steve’s ok.”

“Where is he?” Bucky demands. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Come inside. Let me make you an Americano and we can talk.”

Bucky looks at the wolves, who are still glaring at him with their stupid fucking wolf faces, then back at Tash. “You’re sure he’s ok?”

“I’m sure. Thor wasn’t chasing him, he went to talk to him.”

“Where the fuck are the birds?” he asks, as he follows her inside. “Why didn’t they tell me where the wolves were headed?”

“I sent them back to the penthouse to look after Loki on my way to meet Steve. He needed me here.”

“But, how’d you know? His comms are down.”

“I was staying tuned to him, just in case,” she says, stepping behind the bar to make his espresso. “If I’m tuned in to someone, I can hear them call to me from anywhere in the world. He said ‘Tash I need you at Heart of Darkness’, so I came.”

“Hey, remember that one night in Prospect Park when I was trying to kill Steve and the witch had me trapped in her aura, and then Steve yelled to you and you appeared and punched the shit out of me? Is that how you knew he needed you then, too?”

“Well, no. That time I was hanging around nearby, and I heard him with my regular ears.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, looking disappointed. “So, why did Steve run off? What happened with the wolves?”

“I think I better let Steve tell you himself,” she says, sliding the steaming beverage across the bar to him. “Things have gotten even more complicated, and I’m not sure what our next move is going to be, now.”

“How is that even possible?”

“I’m beginning to learn that when it comes to Steve, all kinds of things are possible.” She stops and eyes him dubiously as he drains the entire contents of his cup, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You thirsty, Winter?”

“I’ve really missed your Americanos,” he grins. “No one makes them like you do.”

“I know. But you don’t usually gulp down hot coffee. You still feeling weird?”

“Yeah, I am actually. In fact, I…had a sort of episode tonight. Before I came over here.”

“An episode?”

“That choking thing happened again, and all I could think of was getting blood as soon as possible. I dragged Loki to some trashy dance club on the Lower East Side and drained two kids in the men’s room.”

Tash wrinkles her nose. “The Lower East Side? There really is something wrong with you. You kill ‘em?”

“No. And I didn’t black out or anything this time. I wasn’t even out of control, really. I just…I felt like an animal, obeying the drive to feed. I don’t usually kill when I feed, so I didn’t.”

“Well, I hope Wanda finds out something, soon. I don’t like how any of this sounds.”

“Oh, she called right before bird man did. She said she got some really confusing stuff out of Rumlow’s head. As far as she can tell, he was inside the fortress when it collapsed. He was down on an underground level like the one we were on, but in another wing, and the whole thing caved in the same way. She can’t see how he survived, though, because everything after that is missing big chunks of time.”

“Curiouser and curiouser. Maybe he can shed some light on it when he wakes up.”

“Hey, you can get into people’s heads with your demon power. Maybe you could find out what’s wrong with me.”

“No, I won’t do that,” she says, shaking her head. “Not to you.”

Bucky frowns. “Why not?”

“Because I couldn’t do it without hurting you. What Wanda does is very delicate and precise. She’s like a scalpel. I’m more like…a chainsaw.”

“Oh. Christ. Well, that’s a big no, then. I’ve had my brain shredded a lot of times and I am not a fan.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling. You want another coffee while we wait for Steve and Thor to come back?”

_They are coming now._

“They’re coming now,” Bucky says, turning to face the glass front of the café.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” A moment passes, then he points. “Look, there they are. Across the street.”

“I can see that,” Tash says. “You a precog now or something?”

“Hm? Oh no, I…smelled them,” Bucky says distractedly, squinting out the window at the two tall, blonde wolves. “What the—wait a minute, that’s our ball! Steve is letting that wolf play with our ball!”

 

 

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

 

 

 

 

Steve is leaning on the railing on the old bridge, gazing down at the glittering reflections of the city lights, dancing across the black surface of the water like fragmented stars. Hearing Thor approach, he stands up and quickly attempts to wipe away the tears streaking his handsome face.

He opens his mouth to say hello, but Thor walks directly up to him and throws his strong arms around him, pulling him into a crushing embrace. The masking spell has worn off, and his scent washes over Steve. Warm, masculine, infinitely comforting, and as familiar to him as his own. Steve surrenders to the embrace, buries his face in Thor’s broad chest, and gives free rein to his tears.

Thor holds him tightly in his impossibly strong arms and lets him weep, rocking him gently and pressing kisses to the top of his blonde head.

“Please forgive me, little brother,” he says hoarsely. “You are so young to have borne so much alone. I should have been there for you after they died. I wanted to. But I could not find you.”

“It’s not—it’s not your fault,” Steve sniffles, drawing away to look up at him. “How did you know they died?”

“Each of my companions felt it, when the thread of their connection was severed. They departed this world nearly all at once. We mourned them as warriors and commended their souls to Valhalla.”

Steve turns and leans heavily on the railing again. “It’s good to know someone did. They were war heroes and not even their own country recognizes them.”

“They were,” Thor says, leaning on the railing beside him. “Their loss was a grave sorrow to us. Only I was left to wonder what had become of my counterpart. Our connection faded and grew cold, but I never felt it severed, and so I kept hope. For many years I called out to you and received no answer. Then at last, I felt you awaken to my call. I knew not where or even who you were, but I knew you had come out of your slumber and walked the earth again, so I began my search for you.”

“So, it was you. You woke me up. I don’t even remember digging myself out. I just woke up in a field in Switzerland with no idea how long it had been or why I came back. But…that was four years ago. You’ve been looking for me all this time?”

“Indeed. I am sorry I did not find you sooner, but you turned out to be a rather difficult man to locate. I could not be away from my home indefinitely, but I spent every moment I could hunting for any rumor or trace of you. Finally, I caught a faint trace of your scent in Germany. I tracked you through Europe until the trail went cold in London. But your scent lead me to the home of a former SIS agent, who had known Erskine and had worked with him and these wolves. She said that if you were still alive anywhere, it would be in New York. She would tell me nothing else, not even your name. Armed with your scent and this information, I came here.”

“Peggy ratted me out, did she?” Steve laughs. “Well, I guess I owe her one. Again.”

“Who was she to you? It seems she is deep in your confidence.”

“A friend. She helped train me and my unit, and supported us on field missions. I even asked her out on a date once. I didn’t really want to, but everyone kept pressuring me to do it, so I did. She said she’d love to, but she didn’t think she was my type. That was her gentle way of letting me know she knew how I was.”

“How you were?”

“I was in love with a man. I don’t know how she knew, but she could always see right through me. She’s the best woman I’ve ever known. I went to find her after I woke up. Luckily, she’d kept her family home, or I might still be looking for her. She took me in and let me stay with her while I got my bearings.”

“She sounds like a good friend.”

“She was. She is. It helped me, to see her again. To know she’d had a good life. Husband, kids, the career she built for herself. I told her I was sorry I’d been too weak to keep fighting. That I was sorry for letting her down. She laughed and said that I had always been dramatic, but I had never let her down. She told me I should go home and join Shield, because they could use my help more than ever. So I went home. I didn’t know how to find them, but I figured they’d find me. And they did.”

“And after all those years and all you’ve lost, you chose to serve again. To be a protector.”

“I guess so,” Steve says, with a self-conscious smile. “I’m not really good at anything else.”

“You do not know what an extraordinary man you are, Steve Rogers. I have lived long in this world. I have seen countless men born and grown old and passed to the next life. I have met none like you.”

“I’m only extraordinary because of you and Erskine. Otherwise I’d be…well, I’d probably be dead by now, but I would’ve stayed a skinny, sickly little weakling my whole life.”

“But the wolf did not make you who you are. It only magnifies what was already there. Erskine and myself aided in fulfilling what was destined for you. You were born to be what you are. A hero and protector of humanity.”

“I never wanted to be a hero,” Steve sighs. “All I wanted was to do the rightest thing I could. I don’t know if I am, but I’m trying.”

“That is all you can do. That is all any of us can do.”

They fall silent for a long moment, gazing out at the river together.

“Tell me of your vampire mate,” Thor says. “How did you meet him?”

“I met him right here, actually,” Steve says. “I was twelve years old. I had an asthma attack and fell into the river. I almost drowned, but he saved me. Then for years we had a kind of…silent friendship. We never spoke, but I’d see him often. He’d smile and slip me a comic book or a candy bar. Silly things, but they were luxuries I never could have spent my little bit of money on, especially after my mom got sick. Even when I had nothing, I had him. I don’t think he knows even now how much he meant to me.”

“That is wonderful! But why would he not know what he meant to you? What happened?”

“I was in love with him, but I was a kid and he was a grown man. It made sense that he’d want to keep his distance. Like I said, we never even talked. Then one day he just wasn’t there anymore. I didn’t know he was a vampire, and I figured he went off to war with everyone else. I took care of my mom till she died, then I joined up and everything happened and I went under. When I came back here, seventy years later, I found him again. Absolutely beyond hope or chance, I found him.”

“And you found that he loved you, too?”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles. “It took me a while, but eventually I told him I was in love with him and I wanted him to be my mate. He said yes.”

“He understood what that meant? What choosing a mate is to us, and that it is a lifelong bond?”

“I made sure he understood. He said he wanted that too, and we’ve been together ever since.”

“I am happy for you, little brother,” Thor says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Such love is rare and precious. Guard it with all you have.”

“I know it is. I will,” Steve says, then pauses. “You know, we’re gonna have to talk about Loki. I hope you understand why I can’t let you kill him.”

Thor blinks, taken aback. “Kill him? I never intended to kill him. Is that what he has told you?”

“Actually…now that I think of it, he never explicitly stated that you meant to kill him. He only said he was afraid of you and that you were hunting him. Usually that implies the killing part, so we can’t really be faulted for the assumption.”

“No, indeed, particularly since he led you to it,” Thor says heatedly. “He is very clever with his words. One can rarely seem to catch him in an outright lie, even when his intention to deceive is evident. Liar or no, he is a betrayer of trust and an oathbreaker.”

“That sounds serious,” Steve frowns. “What exactly did he do?”

 

 

 

 

As they approach the intersection across the street from Heart of Darkness, Steve sees the other wolves hop excitedly to their feet, like dogs when the master arrives home. At that same moment, Tash and Bucky step out the door, also apparently eager to see them.

“The vampire,” Thor says in an undertone. “That is your mate?”

“Yep,” Steve says. “That’s Winter.”

Thor raises his eyebrows. “He is, uh…he is…wow.”

“I know,” Steve says, smiling proudly. “He’s pretty amazing right?”

“Indeed. He is beautiful. Old and powerful, too. You have done well, little brother.”

“Thanks, I think so too,” Steve says. Then he waves cheerfully to the assembled group. “Hey, guys!”

“Steve,” Bucky replies, glowering darkly at Thor, as he and Steve step onto the sidewalk.

“Winter, this is Thor,” Steve beams. “Thor, this is my mate, Winter.”

“Thor. Odinsson,” Thor says, grinning awkwardly. He holds out a hand to shake Bucky’s, which causes him to fumble with the ball and almost drop it. “Pleasure to make your—pleased to meet you, Mr. uh…Winter.”

“Likewise,” Bucky says. “Does someone want to tell me what the fuck is going on, now?”

“Well, there’s been kind of a…misunderstanding,” Steve explains. “Thor and his pack aren’t here to kill Loki.”

“What a relief,” Bucky says drily. “I guess they’ll be on their way, then.”

“It’s not that simple,” Steve says, shaking his head. “There’s still an issue to be resolved with him. It’s getting late, though, and we have to get you under cover for the day, so we’re going to meet Thor tomorrow evening to talk about it.”

Bucky stares at him. “So your plan is to let this pack of werewolves run loose in the city until tomorrow night?”

“Oh, yeah, but Thor has promised not to do anything until we’ve talked everything over.”

“And you just trust him to do what he says.”

“Of course,” Steve says, looking injured. “He gave me his word.”

Bucky eyes Thor up and down again, as if scrutinizing his trustworthiness. He is very tall and exceptionally handsome, but he is also a stupid fucking wolf who has been trespassing on Bucky’s own territory, sauntering about with his mate, and blithely tossing around their tennis ball like he fucking owns it. Steve trusts him, though, so that will have to do for now.

“Fine,” he says, holding out his hand, which causes the tennis ball to leap out of Thor’s hand into it. “But Loki is under our protection, so don’t get any cute ideas.”

“I would not dream of it,” Thor says, dipping his head. Then he turns to Tash. “Demon, thank you for your hospitality. Steve Rogers, Winter, I look forward to our meeting tomorrow evening. Goodnight.”

“Ok, bye Thor,” Steve says, with one of his stupid, sunny smiles. “Text me if you need anything. Have a good night!”

The members of Thor’s pack all give courteous bows, then they turn and depart, vanishing swiftly and silently down the darkened street.

“How’d it go, goldilocks?” Tash asks Steve, once they’ve gone. “You holding up ok?”

He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “I think I am. It’s…a lot to process, but I think it’s good. I feel good about it.”

“What’s a lot to process?” Bucky demands. “Why the fuck is there always something going on that no one will explain to me?”

“I’ll tell you all about it, Buck, but we need to get inside before it gets any later,” Steve says, wrapping his arms around him. “I’ll explain it to everyone back at Loki’s. He should know what’s going on, too.”

“Ok,” Bucky sighs. “Tash, thanks for everything. Sorry we brought a bunch of fucking wolves to your coffee shop.”

“No problem,” Tash shrugs. “I kind of liked them. I’ll stay tuned in case you need me again. Keep me posted.”

 

 

 

They arrive at Loki’s penthouse to find Loki supervising Sam, as he attempts to operate the Italian espresso machine on the black-granite kitchen counter, and Clint sprawled out on one of the black sheepskin rugs, with Arabella sitting in the middle of his chest, purring enthusiastically.

“Mwah,” she announces, lifting her head to blink proudly at Bucky as he enters the living room.

“I can see that,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “I bet that’s the biggest bird you’ve ever caught.”

“I’m probably the biggest bird she’s ever _seen_. That didn’t discourage her, though. She’s been chewing on me all night,” Clint says, as he ruffles the fluffy, white fur on top of her head. Arabella nips at his finger in response, and manages to catch it between her sharp little teeth. “Ow! See? She thinks I’m food.”

“Arabella, my dear, it is impolite to attempt to consume the guests,” Loki calls to her from the kitchen. He accepts the beverage Sam has made, failing to conceal a little grimace as he takes a sip. “That is…a very fine first effort, Sam. You keep at it. Winter, Steve, what news? I have been nearly frantic with worry since Winter said there’d been an explosion and dashed off.”

“Oh, that was just Thor’s hammer hitting my shield,” Steve says. “It made a huge shockwave and knocked us all down.”

“His hammer,” Loki breathes. “You…you fought with him?”

“Not exactly. He just tried it on me and I blocked it. Then Tash came to make sure everyone behaved and we talked.”

“What came of it? Will he and his pack leave the city?”

“Not exactly,” Steve says again. “Thor says he’s open to negotiation, if we’ll meet with him.”

“We?”

“You, me, and Winter. I really think you should go with us to meet him.”

“But…I trusted you to protect me,” Loki says weakly, sinking into a chair. “If you will deliver me into his hands, all hope is lost.”

“No one’s delivering anyone into anyone’s hands,” Bucky interjects. “Steve is talking about a negotiation. That seems like pretty good news, to me. Seeing as we thought he was here to kill you.”

“No, he will not kill me,” Loki says bitterly. “He will only imprison me for the rest of my life. Which will be a fate far worse than death for me, and will bear the same result for you. Chaos, bloodshed, a war over the territory I leave behind. I beg you not to do this. Do not turn me over to him.”

“Hang on, calm down,” Steve frowns. “We’re only asking you to come and hear what he—”

“You are mad to think you can reason with this wolf,” Loki interrupts, growing more agitated. “He has used your nature against you and blinded you with the allure of his power. I was a fool to think it would end any differently. And where, now, will I go? Who will shield me from the wrath of a god?”

“Loki, come on,” Bucky sighs. “He’s not a god, he’s just a powerful wolf. Steve, tell him.”

“Uh…about that,” Steve says sheepishly. “He might not be as entirely not a god as we thought.”

“Was that even a sentence?” Sam asks, squinting at him doubtfully.

“What are you trying to tell us, Steve?” Bucky says patiently. “Think it through all the way before you say it.”

“I’m saying that wolf, Thor, is the real Thor from Norse mythology. He was exiled here just like the stories say, and he’s been living on earth for fifteen-hundred years. I know it sounds crazy, but he’s telling the truth. I just know he is.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and steeples his fingers. “Ok. Listen. It sounds like we are talking about actual gods from ancient legends coming to New York and hanging around at our neighborhood coffee shop. So, I am going to need better than you just know.”

“Erskine made me from his blood,” Steve says. “Thor gave him his blessing and his blood and they used it to change me. I’m connected to him and I can feel his power. It’s leashed while he’s here on earth, but it’s…tremendous.”

“You were made from him?” Loki says, jumping back up, his voice trembling. “Then I am caught between the hammer of a god and the anvil of a demigod. I am truly undone.”

Bucky laughs uneasily. “Steve’s not…a demigod. Steve, you’re not a demigod. Are you?”

“Of course not,” Steve says, flushing crimson. “I mean—what does that even mean?”

“It means someone who is both human and god,” Loki informs him. “Someone like you. Congratulations, Winter, your mate has joined the pantheon. Now, if you will all excuse me, I have to book a flight to…I do not know. Outer space, perhaps.”

“Loki, please don’t run away,” Steve says. “I really am on your side, here. I just want things to be resolved in a way that makes everyone happy.”

“I highly doubt you have had much diplomatic experience, Steve. Had you, you would know such solutions are rarely possible, if ever. One side always loses. I fear I shall be on the losing side this time.”

“I will not allow you to be taken anywhere or held against your will,” Steve says resolutely. “I give you my word. Whether that counts as losing or winning, you’ll have to decide for yourself.”

Loki’s white face goes even whiter. “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter what Steve’s connection to this wolf is,” Bucky cuts in irritably. “He doesn’t break his word. And we’re not about to let the city fall into chaos, anyway. You’re going to have to trust us. You don’t really have any other options.”

“It appears that I do not,” Loki says, with a defeated sigh. “Very well. My fate is in your hands.”

“Good,” Bucky says. “Now, why don’t you go try and rest. It’ll be sunrise soon, and we both need to get into full cover.”

“Perhaps I do need to rest,” Loki says distractedly. “But there is no need for full cover, here.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” Bucky frowns.

Loki looks up at him, as if surprised. “Did I not mention that? I had all the outside facing glass in the place tempered by a very good sorcerer. The sun can’t burn vampires through my windows.”

“Holy shit, I didn’t even know that was possible!” Bucky exclaims. “What about day blindness?”

“It takes care of that as well. I’m sure you noticed your early-evening vision here was better than usual.”

“I didn’t even think about it, but now that you mention it, I haven’t had the blurry-blob thing here at all. Do you think your sorcerer would be willing to take a look at my place?”

“I’m sure he would. I will dig up his card for you in the evening. His name is Strange.”

“Strange how?” Steve asks, confused.

“Absolutely not,” Loki says, shaking his head. “I will not get into a ‘Who’s on First’ routine about this. His name is Dr. Stephen Strange. He is a master of the mystical arts and he lives here in New York.”

“Thank you, I’ll call him,” Bucky yawns. “Mystically tempered glass or not, I am seriously dragging. Steve, you coming to bed?”

“Oh, I’m not really—I mean yes,” Steve corrects hastily. “Yes I am. Very tired. Exhausted. Night everyone!”

Loki rolls his eyes as the big, muscular blonde trots eagerly after his vampire mate, down the hall leading to their guest room.

“I guess Winter’s in a hurry to get a piece of that divine ass,” Sam laughs, as the door shuts behind them.

“It’s not _that_ divine,” Clint grumbles, from where he is still lying on the floor petting the purring cat.

“Aww, you jealous babe?” Sam grins.

Loki massages his forehead with his fingertips. “I really should have given them separate rooms.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t do anything improper,” Clint says encouragingly. “They’re guests in your house.”

“Thank you, Clint, but I know Winter fairly well. His definition of improper is—well, I am not certain he has one.”

“I can’t really blame him,” Sam shrugs. “Steve’s uh…I mean, you’ve all seen him.”

“I suppose I cannot fault them, either,” Loki concedes. “They are in love and their relationship is new, yet. Passion makes fools of us all.”

“Even you?” Clint asks. “You don’t really strike me as the type to lose your head over romantic nonsense.”

“I am not overly given to such flights of fancy, no,” Loki says, with rueful smile. “But even I have been made a fool by love. We vampires are, after all, very nearly human.”

“So are we,” Sam says. “Elioud, I mean. Mr. hawk spirit here likes to remind me how he’s above all my mortal tendencies.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Clint snorts. “I’ve been more of an idiot over love than anyone here. I married you, didn’t I?”

Sam puffs out his chest in a manly fashion. “Goddamn right you did. Now you’re mine and I own you.”

“Yeah, keep it up, jackass,” Clint smirks. “I’ll come back as a woman next time.”

“You wouldn’t!” Sam gasps, manifesting theatrical horror.

“Try me.”

“But baby! I don’t know what to do with…you know, boobies and…lady parts!”

“Well, I guess you better behave then.”

“Gentlemen, if you will excuse me,” Loki smiles, rising from his seat. “Come, Arabella. Bedtime.”

The cat stands up on Clint’s chest and arches her spine lazily, then trots off ahead of her master, as Clint and Sam bid the two cheerful goodnights.

Loki passes silently down the hall and steps into his grand, austere master bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. Arabella hops onto the large bed and stretches out languorously atop the black linens, blinking sleepily at her master. 

He swings open the double doors of his walk-in closet and goes to the dresser, where he removes his cufflinks, pocket watch, and tie-pin. His tie follows, then his belt and shoes. Then he strips out of his black suit and shirt. The suit he lays over a rack, which will indicate to his assistant that it is to be cleaned. He tosses his shirt, undershirt, and underwear into a hamper on his way into his en-suite bathroom.

He stands for a long time beneath the luxurious Swiss shower head, letting the steaming water caress and soothe his body. Not that he has aches or stiffness anywhere—his immortal flesh is as strong and supple as ever—but he is cold. Always cold.

That is one thing the don’t warn you about when you become a vampire. It is not only the blood that calls to the demon, but the heat. The warmth of life. He feels a twinge of envy for Winter, lying in bed warmed by his wolf each day. And wolves produce far more heat than humans. Steve is probably like a furnace.

He shuts off the shower and dries his body and hair with a black towel in a sort of daze. Stupefied by the hollow, icy numbness that has been consuming his soul. He reminds himself, as he slides into his silky linens, that to crave warmth is weakness. He is a creature of the cold and the ice is his native habitat.

Besides, the cold numbs and soothes. To melt the ice is to leave oneself open and defenseless. Raw and bleeding and exposed. He rolls onto his side and strokes the cat, gazing musingly into the middle distance.

“What shall I do, Arabella?” he sighs.

“Mrrf,” Arabella suggests.

“No, my dear, I meant what shall I do about the wolf?”

“Myah?” Arabella puts forth hopefully.

“Don’t be absurd. I will never agree to that.”

“Wrrow,” Arabella laments, rolling onto her back.

“I know, darling, but I am caught and I see no escape. In any case, you will be well provided for. You need not worry.”

Arabella winks and purrs loudly in response.

“Sometimes I don’t think you’re even listening,” Loki chides, rubbing her fluffy belly. “We shall see, I suppose, what the evening brings.”

 

 

 

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually tag for things that could count as spoilers, but since this is a complicated issue and I don't want to get a thousand messages about it, I felt it appropriate to give fair warning.
> 
> WARNING: Bucky and vampires in general are flagrantly and repeatedly compared to cats in this chapter. I know this idea is triggering to some people, so I am warning you now, lest there be mass-swoonings. And to that person who flipped out on me for Sam making a joke about Bucky being a cat in another story of mine, I hope you read this and all you can think when you read about Bucky or vampires ever again is that they are cats. Literally cats. Bucky is a cat. Vampires are cats. HA!
> 
> OH, also, there will be Thor/Loki in this story. It's not an incest ship, they are not any kind of brothers, adopted or otherwise, nor are they related in any way. I understand that this still bothers some people, so if the idea of these two non-related, consenting adults having a sexual relationship offends your delicate sensibilities, please feel free to exit through the gift shop. And don't forget to take a complimentary box of Kleenex on your way out. 
> 
> Thank you, everyone! Happy reading!

 

 

 

 

“I don’t understand what you’re so worked up about,” Bucky says, from where he is lying stretched out on Loki’s bed, with Arabella perched on his chest. “We’re just going to talk with him.”

“I do not expect you to understand, Winter,” Loki says, glancing at him in the mirror. “You have never been afraid of anything in your life.”

“Yes I have,” Bucky mutters. “I’ve been afraid of plenty of things.”

Loki turns to him, raising a dubious eyebrow. “Is that so? What have you ever been afraid of?”

“An old man and a collar,” Bucky sighs, idly stroking Arabella’s fur.

_The old man is dead._

“But the old man is dead.”

“I am in no mood for games, Winter,” Loki says, turning back to the mirror to adjust his tie. “If you do not wish to tell me, you have only to say so.”

“I just told you. Those are the things I’ve been afraid of. So afraid that I couldn’t even fight back.”

The tone of his voice stops Loki in his tracks. Moments of genuine openness from his former lover are so rare as to be nearly nonexistent, but it appears that this is one of them. He pauses, almost holding his breath, terrified to break the spell and feel this door slammed shut in his face.

“Why should such things make you so afraid?” he asks cautiously, watching Bucky in the mirror.

“I was afraid of the old man because he trained me to fear him,” Bucky says, staring up at the ceiling. “I was afraid of the collar because he used it to control me. To make me a slave.”

Loki turns slowly to face him, taking care not to betray any strong reaction in his face or body. “When you were…away. What happened to you?”

“I went to Berlin, to kill Nazis,” Bucky answers, much to Loki’s surprise. “I was ambushed and poisoned by a group of fanatics. They took me somewhere and…they tore my mind apart. They took away my memory and made me an obedient killing machine. I spent decades being tortured, sent to kill people, then returning to be put to sleep till they needed me again.”

Loki stares at him in undisguised horror.

“Why did—why did you never tell me?” he demands, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Why would you not tell me this, Winter?”

“I didn’t remember,” Bucky says, still gazing at the ceiling. “I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean you didn’t remember?”

“If I was away for too long, their mind control started to wear off. Our SUV went off a mountain road in Romania, and all my handlers were killed. I had no way to contact anyone, so I laid low and waited to be extracted. After a couple of weeks, the mind control had weakened enough, and I broke the collar. But when I did that, I lost all my memory of what they’d done to me. I had no idea why I’d come to Romania, or what had happened to forty years of my life. My own memory came back bit by bit, and eventually, I was able to contact our attorneys to have them wire me identification documents and money, so I could get home.”

“Why do you remember now?” Loki asks, coming to sit on the bed beside him.

“A few months ago they captured me again. The man who had been in charge of torturing me before was there, but he’d gotten old. I called him the old man. Everyone did. They ripped my brain to shreds again, cut my arm off and stuck this one on, put a new kind of collar on me, and very stupidly sent me to kill Steve.”

“Ah, so that is the origin of your prosthesis. And these people…they brainwashed you and sent you to kill your wolf mate? What happened?”

“Well, you know Steve,” Bucky says, grinning up at him. “As you can imagine, he stubbornly refused to die. Instead, he took me back, destroyed their fortress, killed almost all of them, and got me free of their control once and for all. Oh, and he cut the head off a hydra like a fucking jackass, even after Tash explicitly told him not to. He gets a bit…defiant, when he’s told what to do.”

“Steve cut the head off a hydra?” Loki asks, openly astonished. “Where did you even find a living hydra? The middle of the goddamned ocean?”

“Yeah, it was, actually. The Barents Sea between Finland and Russia. Their HQ was on this island there, and whatever Tash and the witch did to break the mind stone thing unleashed the hydra. I think it was a kind of failsafe, but the old man intended to use it as trap to kill all of us.”

“How did you survive? Steve didn’t kill it, did he? Though, I’d hardly be surprised, at this point.”

“No, that dumb wolf just pissed it off,” Bucky laughs. “It grew two new heads and started eating the island. Like, biting huge chunks of earth right out of it and swallowing them. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Good god. What did you do?”

“We hauled ass to the jet and tried to get away. The hydra tossed a tree into our wing and we spun out hard. We were going to crash. Then something caught us and set us down.”

“What caught you?”

“I’m getting to it, let me tell the fucking story,” Bucky says, laughing again. “So, we’d just gotten used to the idea that we were still alive, when this big ball of light comes soaring down out of the sky. Of course, we run over to the cliff to see what’s happening, because I guess we can’t all be McArthur Genius Grant candidates, and this light ball dives into the ocean—and we’re standing on the cliff staring like stunned sheep, mind you—and we watch while the light ball just kills the thing. A literal fucking hydra. Heads as big as houses.”

Loki hasn’t seen his old lover in this mood in decades. He catches himself smiling and laughing along with the story as Winter tells it, with all the lively animation and wit that had made his young vampire admirer into a devoted adorer so many years ago.

“Then our light ball savior comes flying up and introduces itself,” Bucky is saying. “Herself, I should say. Turns out she’s a fucking seraph. So, we had just watched an actual hydra get destroyed by an actual angel, and she glides over and says, ‘hey how’s it going, I’m Carol’. Like it was no big deal. Oh, and Clint and Tash already knew her, those assholes.”

“How did you get off the island?”

“Steve told her our jet was wrecked, and she said she knew and that she’d caught us. Then she did some angel magic and popped us all back home. Just like that.”

“That sounds…extraordinary,” Loki says, shaking his head in amazement. “You have made some strange friends, indeed, Winter.”

“Well, they’re mostly Steve’s friends. I was just along for the ride.”

“Who is this Tash you mentioned? I have heard Steve say that name before.”

“She’s a half-demon who owns an espresso shop by my place. That’s where we’re going tonight, actually. She’s got the place on arcane lockdown and no one can hurt anyone there, so it’s good neutral ground.”

“Half-demon…you do not mean Natasha, daughter of Pepper, the chaos demon, do you?”

“Yeah, that’s her. She mostly goes by Tash.”

“How on earth did you become friendly with her? She is…I would call her terrifying, but that would be to understate it comically.”

“It’s a long story, but mostly I knew her from the coffee shop. I didn’t know she was a demon until later, though. I didn’t even know her full name was Natasha till her parents showed up and called her that.”

“You have met Mr. Stark, as well?”

“Yeah, a few times. He’s kind of…eccentric, isn’t he?”

“Eccentric, yes. I would say that describes him. Pepper is more to my liking. So powerful and ruthless, and yet such a sweet, thoughtful woman.”

“I like her, too. You know, I keep wanting to ask her how a big-time chaos demon wound up with a name like Pepper, but I’ve never got up the courage to do it.”

“Oh, I know. Mr. Stark mentioned it when we were chatting at one of his galas once. He said her proper name is unpronounceable by any mortal tongue, so she allowed him to choose a nickname for her. He chose Pepper.”

“Seems like a weird choice. Why Pepper?”

“It is because—and I am only relating what he said—she is, if I recall his exact words, spicy. Like a pepper.”

“Gross,” Bucky says, making a face. “I could’ve lived happily for the rest of time not knowing that.”

Loki flashes a mischievous smile. “I am aware. But, as I have suffered with this knowledge, so now shall you.”

“Thanks a lot, asshole. Are you ready, or what?”

“I was ready twenty minutes ago, Winter. You are the one who chose this time to finally reveal to me what had become of you for four decades. Pardon me for being rather impatient to hear it.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Loki…why didn’t you ever try to find out what happened to me? I was gone for so many years, and you didn’t even look for me. Was I that terrible?”

“Terrible? No,” Loki says, turning away. “I did not believe you wanted to be found. I thought you had finally abandoned me for good, and that going without a word was your way of severing our connection cleanly.”

“But you kept up the public perception that I was coming back. You held onto my territory for me.”

“Yes, well…I suppose a foolish part of me never left off hoping that you would return one day. Which you did, so I was correct, and there is no need to discuss it any further.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, catching Loki’s hand as he rises from the bed. “I’m sorry I never treated you right. I’m sorry I couldn’t love you the way you deserved. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Come now, Winter,” Loki says, masking his sudden upwelling of emotion with an offhanded laugh. “There is no need to be sentimental. We both did things that reflect poorly upon us. I will harbor no ill feeling toward you, if you will harbor none toward me.”

Bucky pushes himself up and stands eye to eye with Loki, searching his face intently. “Loki, I treated you badly. The way I behaved toward you was wrong. You have every right to be angry, and I understand if you won’t forgive me, but please tell me you hear me and acknowledge what I’m saying. You deserved better. You still do.”

Loki takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, keeping his expression and posture composed.

“I hear and acknowledge what you are saying,” he says. “But I am not angry, and there is nothing to forgive. We were never happy together. We were simply all one another had, and we were too afraid to let go.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Bucky says, looking down at the floor. “That was what we were doing, wasn’t it.”

“It was. For solitary creatures, you and I were never very good at being alone.”

“I mean, I was for a while. Till that dumb, blonde wolf came smashing headfirst into my life and ruined everything.”

“Yes, and you are suffering so dreadfully,” Loki says drily. “Please, accept my outpouring of pity for your happy relationship with an impossibly beautiful young man who worships the ground upon which you walk.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, pretending to wipe away a tear. “Finally, someone pities me. But it’s my cross to bear, I suppose. I’ll find a way to survive somehow.”

“Alright, now you’re gloating. No one likes a gloater, do they, Arabella.”

“Mweh,” Arabella confirms, with a decisive switch of her tail.

“You’re just mad cause I put you down, Moo-moo,” Bucky retorts. “Don’t you lecture me about manners.”

At that moment, there is a knock at the door, and Steve pops his blonde head in. “Hey, are you guys ready? I thought I should check, since it’s past seven.”

“Thank you, Steve,” Loki replies, dipping his chin. “I am ready, but Winter hasn’t dressed yet.”

“What? Yes I have,” Bucky says indignantly. “I got dressed before I came in here.”

Loki arches an eyebrow. “Ah, that is what you intend to wear. How very…modern of you.”

“I like my clothes,” Bucky growls, as he stalks out of the room. “Get your talons off that espresso machine, bird! I’m making my own.”

 

 

 

 

“How you holding up, big guy?” Tash asks Thor, who is sitting at a table in Heart of Darkness, looking extremely uncomfortable.

“I am quite well, thank you,” Thor says, with an attempt at a jaunty grin. “I am doing great. Everything is…great.”

Tash raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, you sound like you’re doing great. Can I get you another latté?”

“I had better not. Caffeine makes me…jittery. Are they coming soon, do you think?”

“Yeah, Steve texted a minute ago. He said they’re almost out the door.”

“Ah, excellent. Thank you very much, demon.”

“No problem,” Tash says, as she goes back to her perch behind the bar.

Her book appears in her hands and she pretends to read it, while actually watching the wolf at the table. He is anxiously twisting his napkins into ropes and tying them into knots.

By the time Steve comes into view outside the glass front of the café, followed by Bucky and Loki, Thor has made himself a pile of ten little napkin anxiety-knots. He hops to his feet to greet them as they enter, and thus does not see Tash flick her wrist, causing the knots and shredded bits of napkin to vanish from the table.

“Hey, Tash!” Steve calls out. Then he and Thor embrace heartily, as if it’s been weeks since they last saw one another. “It’s so good to see you again, Thor. Sorry we’re late.”

“It is good to see you, as well, Steve Rogers,” Thor replies. “Are you late? I didn’t notice. Winter. Loki. Please, uh…please sit.”

Tash carries over the drinks she has already made them, including another latté for Thor, who accepts it gladly, despite his earlier protest. The tray vanishes when she is finished with it, and she leans down to kiss Steve and Bucky on their cheeks in greeting.

“Ok, babies, remember the rules,” she says. “No conjuring or summoning weapons, and if you want to fight, you literally have to take it outside.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve and Thor say.

Loki dips his chin, and Bucky doesn’t appear to have been listening.

Tash ruffles his hair by way of scolding him, then saunters away to her seat and her book behind the counter. Loki sits with his hand on the handle of his black cane, projecting an attitude of genteel boredom, but his spine is stiff and he’s not breathing. Signs that a vampire is intensely agitated. Thor is pretending to be engrossed in the lid of his coffee cup, and Steve is beaming his thousand-watt smile around like a searchlight.

“Is…someone going to start talking, or—” Bucky begins.

“Ten years,” Thor says, without looking up.

Steve cocks his head to one side. “Ten years?”

“That is how long I have been seeking you,” Thor says, clearly not addressing Steve.

“Hunting me,” Loki replies icily. “By your own choice.”

“By my own choice, yes. Because I honor my word as given. Because I am not a serpent and a deceiver.”

“I am what my nature makes me, wolf,” Loki sneers.

“You were a guest in my house, Loki,” Thor says, looking up at him at last. “I treated you as a friend, in good faith, and you—”

“Guests are permitted to depart, if memory serves. You held me prisoner.”

“You murdered innocent humans who were under my protection. You should be grateful that was the only consequence.”

“You knew what I was,” Loki says, with a dismissive toss of his black hair. “You knew I must feed on human blood to live. You cannot fault the serpent for striking when you take it in your hands.”

“No, and that was why I tempered my judgement. But I can fault a man for betraying a sacred trust, and for making an oath he had no intention of keeping.”

Loki gives a cold laugh. “Please. I am not one of your kind. I cannot be held to your traditions.”

“All men are accountable for their word,” Thor says, keeping his voice low and calm despite his rising wrath. “Our kinds are of no consequence. You were aware of what you were doing. You made your choice with your eyes open.”

“And you fault me because you made yours blindly,” Loki says disdainfully. “What do you want from me, then? What recompense do you demand? Shall I come back against my will and live as a hostage in your house?”

“I want you to honor your word!” Thor growls, leaping up from his seat.

Loki gives a start and pushes himself against the back of his chair. The palpable scent of his fear washes over Steve, putting him immediately on the defensive.

“Come on, guys,” he breaks in. “Let’s calm down ok? Thor, you need to—”

“You made an oath, Loki,” Thor goes on, not appearing to have heard him. “You bound yourself by our sacred law.”

“I am not your subject, wolf!” Loki snarls, his anger apparently overwhelming his fear for the moment. He rises to his feet as well, drawing himself up to his full height. “I am not your servant to command, nor your plaything, to be kept at your call.”

Thor’s handsome features tighten in an expression of pain. “Is that what you believe you are to me? Is your mind so twisted that you cannot see how I—”

“No!” Loki cuts him off, holding up his hand. “I will not hear it. I will not listen to this.”

“You will hear it,” Thor says. His grey-blue irises have turned fiery gold and are fixed fiercely on him. “You will hear me. I have spent ten long years searching for you. You belong to me, and I to you. This bond cannot be broken, whether you will it or no.”

“I do not belong to anyone!” Loki hisses, backing away as Thor takes a step toward him.

Steve jumps up to place himself between them, but Loki’s physical form instantly dissipates into black vapor, and is gone in the blink of an eye. Thor stands there staring at the place he had been for a moment, then sighs and presses a hand to his brow.

“I guess that could’ve gone better,” Tash’s smooth, smoky voice says, from where she is suddenly standing beside him.

“You are correct, demon,” he replies, smiling sadly. “I fear the only way it could have gone worse would be if I had somehow managed to burn the place down around us.”

“That sounds about right. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you don’t have a lot of experience with cats, do you.”

“Cats?” Thor asks, with a bewildered frown.

“Vampires are basically cats,” she explains. “Have you ever tried to befriend a cat by grabbing it and telling it that it belongs to you?”

“Of course not,” Thor laughs. “That would be foolish. It would—oh, I see.”

“Yep,” she says, patting him on the shoulder. “You scared your kitty-cat away with all that aggressive puppy behavior. Now you’re going to have to fix things before it runs off for good.”

“What do you mean, vampires are cats?” Bucky interjects, crossing his arms. “I’m not a fucking cat.”

“Yeah you are, babe, deal with it,” Tash replies. “You’re just not the posh, penthouse type like Loki. You’re more of a feral alley-cat.”

“Aww, Buck, you _are_ a cat!” Steve exclaims. “I never put it together before, but you’re just like one, with all your growling and clawing and pretending you hate being petted.”

“You should talk,” Bucky grumbles. “You’re literally a giant golden retriever.”

“Oh my god, I am!” Steve laughs delightedly. “Thanks, Buck. That was really nice of you to say.”

“Get off me, dog, gross,” Bucky protests, pretending to try to push Steve away as he nuzzles his neck affectionately. “You’re gonna get your dirty dog germs all over me.”

“What’s your plan, big bad wolf?” Tash asks Thor. “How are you going to coax your vamp kitty back?”

“I have no idea,” Thor sighs, dropping into his chair. “I am the worst at this.”

“You really are,” Steve says helpfully. “But we happen to have a cat right here who can teach you how to talk to one.”

“Oh the fuck no he can’t,” Bucky says. “This is none of my business. I don’t even understand what’s going on, here.”

“Really, Buck?” Steve smirks. “Even I understand, and I never know what people are talking about.”

“Ok, Steve, enlighten me.”

“Thor’s in love with Loki, and he wants him to be his mate,” Steve says, then winces. “Oh—I hope that doesn’t bother you. You know, since you and Loki used to sleep together and stuff.”

Bucky stares at him. “Thank you, Steve. Thank you for mentioning in front of the big, scary wolf-god that I used to fuck his boyfriend. I’m really glad he knows that now.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve beams.

Bucky sighs and turns to Thor. “Since we’re all getting extremely familiar anyway, what happened between you two? This is the first I’ve heard of any of it.”

“Steve Rogers was almost correct,” Thor says. “I do love Loki, but he is already my mate. He abandoned me, and I want him back.”

“I knew that fucking sneaky asshole was hiding something,” Bucky says irritably. “But how did he…how did you two wind up together in the first place? You don’t really seem like each other’s type.”

“My people and I keep vigilant watch over supernatural creatures in Norway,” Thor says. “When he arrived in our land, our watchers reported his presence. They said that a new vampire had been seen in Kristiansand, and that they would keep an eye on it. However, rather than slinking about like a thief as they usually do, he came directly to my house and presented himself, like a gentleman.

He said he was aware that Norway was under my protection, and sought my leave to stay for a time and take some rest in the pastoral tranquility. I gave permission, provided he observed our laws as far as hunting humans, and he agreed. He sent gifts and a message reiterating his thanks within a few days, as was proper. This message also contained an invitation to call on him at his hotel for supper.

I accepted and I found him a charming and entertaining companion. It was refreshing to me to spend time with a gentleman who observed the old customs of courtesy and gracious conduct. We quickly became friends. He demonstrated a deep interest in my land and its history, and I showed him my people’s farms and pastures and fishing operations.

He also had a keen head for business, and he offered to look into a few problems we were having with losses from parasitic infection among our salmon, and some taxation issues regarding our goat farms. Our people work as a community, and we share the proceeds of our farming and fishing fairly, but we were losing revenue in several places, and this was affecting their livelihoods.

He was able to make some minor changes that greatly increased efficiency and revenue without a negative impact on my people’s working hours or happiness. I was extremely impressed. I am a good leader as far as warfare and justice and inspiring loyalty in the people, but I was never an administrator. His help was a great relief to me and he soon made himself indispensable.

He began to act as my advisor in many of my business affairs, and he made everything run far more smoothly. He was also coolheaded and a wise diplomatist, and prevented me making some rash decisions in anger, on more than one occasion. Having him nearby was like finding a part of myself that I had been missing and had not known it till now.

And I found that after many months spending so much time together, I was growing less willing to spend time apart from him. This feeling grew into something deeper and more significant than friendship. Finally, I realized that I loved him. After all these centuries, I had finally chosen my mate.

I was wary of revealing my heart to him, lest I lose his companionship and friendship, but my impulsive nature won out, and I soon made full confession of my love. I asked him to be my mate. He said he loved me, as well, and he accepted. I was overjoyed and I took him to my bed to consummate our bond straightaway.

Pardon my forwardness with this detail, but it is vital to understanding the mate bond. Wolves mate for life, and we do not mate physically outside that single union. It is not in our nature. He knew this, and he entered our arrangement knowing its significance to me.

Soon after, I learned from our watchers that he had been flouting our laws for hunting, and killing humans who were considered to be under our protection. The pack was furious at the betrayal of our friendship and trust. They demanded his head, as was just according to our laws.

I told them of our recently formed union as mates. They agreed that no matter what his trespasses, he must now be dealt with as a member of the pack, rather than an outsider. It was decided that he must swear an oath in blood to abide by our laws heretofore, and that he should be confined to my supervision, until such time as the pack was certain that he had reformed, and would break our laws no more.

I knew how proud he was and how headstrong. I expected defiance, anger, even open refusal. Instead, he was…cold. He accepted the terms and withdrew quietly to his chamber. For weeks he tormented me with silence. Then one night he came to me and begged forgiveness. He said his heart was breaking and he would do whatever it took to make me love him again.

I told him that was absurd, and I had never stopped loving him, but it was my duty to see that justice was served. He said he understood and did not resent it. He was weak and blood-starved, so I gave him a very small quantity of my own blood. Then we were…intimate together and I was happy again.

I woke to find him dressing himself and I was quickly aware that I could not move. While I slept, he had placed some restraining spell upon me. It was powerful, but it could not hold me long, so I attempted to delay him. I begged him to explain himself and let me try to mend things between us, but he spoke haughtily to me and said he would be no man’s possession.

As he made to depart, I told him I would never stop loving him and I swore I would hunt him to the ends of the earth. He said I was welcome to try. He used the power my blood had given him to overwhelm my household guard and he vanished. I have not seen him since, until this night.”

Steve and Bucky sit silent for a while, processing this strange and melodramatic tale, and not exactly certain what to say in response.

“But…” Steve says, after a long moment. “It doesn’t sound like he was afraid of you at all.”

“No, indeed,” Thor says, with a mirthless laugh. “He was never afraid of me. Not till tonight, which I found strange. But I thought perhaps our years apart had altered me in his perception.”

Steve frowns thoughtfully. “I mean, he seemed genuinely afraid of you when he talked about you to us before. And I smelled fear on him as clear as a bell tonight. I wonder what’s gotten into him.”

_Not fear. Deception. Chemical scent._

“Unless he’s been using some chemical scent to fool you into thinking he’s really afraid,” Bucky says. “I know Loki, and I wouldn’t put that kind of thing past him at all.”

“Even if he was, what’s his endgame?” Steve asks. “Why would he want us to believe he’s afraid of Thor?”

“I don’t know, but there’s one way to find out,” Bucky says, rising from his chair. “I’m going to go ask him and I’m going to search his place. If he’s using an artificial scent, it has to be kept in something I can find.”

“It would have to be an excellent one,” Thor puts in. “It is very difficult to deceive our noses.”

“Loki would only have the best, anyway,” Bucky sighs. “I’m sorry about all of this, Thor. I wish we were better than we are. The demon blood doesn’t make us bad people, but it doesn’t help if we’re already inclined that way.”

“I think you are a good person, Winter,” Thor says. “I know you are. Loki is, too. Only he will not believe it.”

“Maybe you can convince him,” Bucky says. “Steve, text me if anything else comes up. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“You sure you should go alone, Buck?” Steve says, looking concerned.

“I’ll be fine, you dumb wolf,” Bucky smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. “I love you. See you in a bit.”

“Love you too,” Steve calls after him, as he strides purposefully out the door.

He and Thor watch him step onto the sidewalk, glance around to be sure he is not observed, then vanish in a whirl of black vapor.

“That smoke thing they do looks so cool,” Thor remarks. “I wish we could do that.”

“Well, we can turn into huge wolves,” Steve shrugs. “It’s a give and take. Hey! You want to go to the park and toss the ball around while we wait?”

“You read my mind, little brother,” Thor grins.

Tash looks up from her book to bid them farewell as they depart, impatient to blow off some steam after the prolonged session sitting still and talking, which are not wolves’ favorite activities. They are hurling the ball at each other at tremendous speeds, laughing and jeering and generally enjoying being outdoors running about, when Steve lifts his head, scenting the air eagerly.

“It’s Dusty and Waffles!” he says, to Thor’s questioning look. “They’re my dog friends. I met them at this park and they’re really friendly and fun. I’m so excited for you to meet them!”

Thor follows him as he dashes off across the park, then through some trees, to emerge on the sidewalk. Sure enough, Steve’s stout, short-legged friends are marching up the street on their leashes. The woman walking them, however, is clearly not Sharon. She is about six inches shorter, has dark hair, and does not smell like Sharon at all. As such, Steve approaches less boisterously than he would have, not wanting to terrify the woman out of her wits.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he says, smiling cheerfully. “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers. This is my brother, Thor. I’m a friend of Dusty and Waffles and Sharon. Would you mind if I said hi to them?”

“Not at all,” the woman says. “I’m Sharon’s housekeeper, Isabella.”

“Nice to meet you, Isabella,” Steve says, from where he is already kneeling, receiving exuberant expressions of canine affection.

“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Thor says, with a courteous bow. “Dusty and Waffles are very fine animals. Hardy warriors, I’d wager.”

“They’re pretty much the best boys ever, right?” Steve laughs, rubbing their bellies vigorously.

“They are very energetic, these two,” Isabella says, eyeing them reproachfully. “They do not like that mama is away at the hospital, and they have chosen to express that by tearing apart two throw pillows and leaving the batting all over the apartment.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Steve says. “She did say she’s been working a lot lately.”

“I am sorry, I did not explain,” Isabella says. “Sharon is at the hospital because she is ill.”

“Oh, no!” Steve frowns, getting back to his feet. “I had no idea. Is she ok? What happened?”

“I don’t know what happened,” Isabella says, shaking her head sadly. “I came to clean the other day and I found her on the floor. I was so scared. I thought she was…but she was breathing, thank god. I called for an ambulance and they took her to the hospital where she works. They say it is a coma. Her cousin flew in to be with her, but she has not woken up yet. I am taking care of the boys till she comes home.”

Isabella covers her mouth to stifle a sob, as tears roll down her face. Dusty and Waffles sit down at her feet and whine softly up at her, nudging her knees with their velvety muzzles.

“Isabella, it’s going to be ok, I promise,” Steve says, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Sharon is my friend and I’m going to make sure she’s getting the absolute best care in the world. Thank you for taking care of the boys for her. I’m sure she’ll be relieved to know they’ve been in good hands.”

“Ok, Steve,” Isabella sniffles. “You seem like a good man. Sharon is such a wonderful woman. I am glad she has friends like you.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Steve says. “Dusty, Waffles, I know you boys are upset and worried, but you better be good and not tear up your human’s house while she’s sick, ok?”

The two dogs warble dutifully at Steve, as if acknowledging an order, then he and Thor walk briskly away, back toward Heart of Darkness.

“What is it, Steve Rogers?” Thor asks, once they are out of earshot. “You seem to know more of this human woman’s illness than you revealed to her servant.”

“I don’t know if I do or not,” Steve says, shaking his head. “There’s been something wrong with Winter lately. He blacked out and bit her by accident the other day. She was fine when I left her, though, so I’m hoping it’s unrelated.”

“But you suspect that it is not,” Thor says.

“I’ve just got a bad feeling about it. I’ve got to talk to Tash right aw—”

Steve stops short, as Tash materializes directly in front of him, and he almost runs headlong into her.

“Speak of the Devil,” she says, in her usual languid drawl. “You need me again already? What could you two have possibly gotten into in the half hour you’ve been at the park?”

“It’s Sharon,” Steve says. “She’s in the hospital, in a coma. Her housekeeper found her unconscious the other day. We ran into her walking Dusty and Waffles and she told us about it.”

“Oh, fuck,” Tash says. “You don’t think Winter biting her had something to do with it, do you?”

“I hope not, but we have to get to the hospital right away.”

“You’re not really the espionage type, goldilocks. I’ll go alone and see what I can find out. If it’s something mystical, we’ll have her moved to Shield.”

“You guys can do that?” Steve says, raising his eyebrows.

“You wouldn’t believe what we can do. Moving a patient is nothing. You guys let Winter and the birds know what’s going on, and I’ll pop over as soon as I know anything.”

“Ok,” Steve nods, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “Thank you, Tash.”

“Well, you know. It’s kind of my job,” she grins. “See you soon, babies.”

 

 

 

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

 

 

 

 

“Hello, Winter,” Loki says, not looking up from his book. “By all means, do come in.”

He has changed his black suit jacket for a velvet smoking jacket in deep, hunter-green, and is sitting serenely in one of his easy chairs, with a book in one hand and a long, black cigarette in the other. On the mahogany reading table beside him, there is a glass of brandy, and a heavy crystal ash tray.

“Where are the birds?” Bucky asks, peering about as he crosses into the living room.

“They stepped out for supper,” Loki says, turning the page of his book. “They should return shortly.”

Bucky stops directly in front of him and crosses his arms. “Are you using a chemical scent to make the wolves think you’re afraid of Thor?”

“Yes,” Loki replies tranquilly.

Bucky pauses, blinking.

“Well…why?” he demands, despite his momentum being somewhat dampened by Loki’s forthright response.

“Because wolves are predators, and the fear scent is extremely potent to them. It masks everything else very effectively.”

“You know I meant why are you using a chemical scent, not why are you using that specific one.”

“Why should I not?” Loki returns, shutting his book and looking up at him.

Bucky has a sudden feeling that he is about to be far too easily outmatched in this interchange, which makes him irritable. “Why should you, Loki? Why does everything have to be a fucking layer cake of lies, with you?”

“Winter, it is frankly astonishing to me that you should even ask me that,” Loki says, appearing genuinely affronted. “The fact that wolves are able to detect all that is passing in my head by way of my scent is…intolerable. Would you wish to discuss a contentious matter with me, knowing I could read your mind and you could not read mine?”

“That’s how I feel every time I talk to you,” Bucky mutters, snatching the black cigarette out of his hand.

He falls into the easy chair beside Loki’s and draws on it, sending a lazy ring of smoke curling into the air above the coffee table. Loki removes a gold cigarette case and matching lighter from his breast pocket.

“You understand my reason for doing so, then,” he says, as he lights another for himself.

“Yes,” Bucky sighs, accepting his sound defeat.

“And all your righteous indignation when you confronted me, that was because you suspected me of concealing myself for some malicious purpose.”

“You can’t exactly blame me. You have a history of doing shit like that.”

“I suppose I do,” Loki says, with a downcast smile. “I have very nearly made an art of being deceitful and double-faced, haven’t I.”

“It’s never too late to change,” Bucky says, reclining in his chair and rolling his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.

“Is it not? I wonder, can any of us really change?”

“I did.”

“Did you really? Or are you simply…on a leash?”

Bucky shoots him an angry glance. “Seriously? Fuck you.”

“But I am serious,” Loki says, leaning forward earnestly. “Have you genuinely changed? Or are your new ways simply affected in order to please your mate? I mean no offense, I am driving at something specific.”

“I have genuinely changed,” Bucky says. “The fact that I don’t kill people makes Steve happy, sure. But I wasn’t with him and had no plans to be when I made the decision to stop. Not killing made me feel better about living. It made this curse easier to carry. When they took me and made me a mindless killer, it was that much more cruel. Because I had known what it was like not to be a monster for a while. Or, less of a monster, anyway.”

“Well. You were never very good at being a monster.”

“What?” Bucky says, squinting at him. “Yes I was.”

“No, you were not,” Loki maintains, leaning over to knock the ash from his cigarette into the ash tray. “Do you recall all the rows we had about who it was proper to feed upon? You said prostitutes were strictly off-limits, because it was—and I quote—‘plain wrong feedin’ on these gals, when the world already done ‘em so much ill’.”

Bucky laughs outright at this dead-on imitation of his long discarded Irish brogue. “Christ, I did talk that way, didn’t I. How the fuck could you stand to listen to me?”

“I always found your manner of speaking quite charming.”

“You said it made me sound like an illiterate provincial.”

“It did. But I liked that about you. You were everything that I was not. Rough, worldly, vastly older and more experienced than I.”

“That benefitted you directly, though,” Bucky grins. “Remember the first time we fucked?”

“Of course I do. It was the first time I’d been with anyone.”

“I know. Why do you think I went so easy on you?”

“That was what you called going easy?”

“You know it was. I’m surprised the police weren’t sent to find out who was being murdered a few of those times.”

“We never could fuck without making an utter brawl of it, could we,” Loki laughs. “I imagine you and your wolf have given one another some remarkable injuries.”

“Not really,” Bucky shrugs. “I’ve gotten boring and vanilla in my old age. Steve is a complete lunatic, though.”

“Steve?” Loki says dubiously. “Your sweet, honey and sunshine wolf-pup? You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, don’t let him fool you,” Bucky laughs. “Sure, he’s all sunbeams and smiles, but the minute he’s got his dick in me, it’s ‘come for me bitch’ this and ‘beg me’ that. You have no fucking idea what a monster that man can be.”

“Indeed,” Loki muses, puffing on his cigarette. “That does surprise me. More for the fact that it was you who always took the dominant role. I thought you preferred it that way.”

“Wait, what? What do you mean? I thought you liked me being the dominant one.”

“I didn’t mind it. And I enjoyed having sex with you. But I am not at all a natural submissive. You must know that.”

“I really didn’t,” Bucky says. “Holy shit, I can’t believe I didn’t know this about you. You could’ve been tying me up and beating me senseless all those years. Well, c’est la vie.”

“I suppose I still could, but I doubt you’d enjoy it without the sex.”

“What about when you were with Thor? He seems like a pretty dominant guy. Big, strong alpha. Pack leader. Who’s the one holding the leash?”

“Not a chance, Winter. I will not be discussing that with you. You can’t even be trusted with Arabella’s registry name, let alone intimate details about myself and my w—my former lover.”

Bucky sits up and eyes him cagily. “You were about to say ‘my wolf’ weren’t you.”

“Of course not,” Loki says, looking down at his cigarette. “Don’t be absurd. He is not my…anything. He is a brute and a barbarian, and I can’t stand the sight of him.”

“Wow. And here I thought you were good at lying.”

“I am not lying, Winter, I am—”

“Saying shit that’s patently untrue?”

“No! I am telling the truth! I do not want to be with him!”

“But why, Loki? I know Thor is…a bit much, but he loves you. Why is that so terrible?”

“You saw the way he was,” Loki says, gesturing with his glass of brandy. “He wants to own me. He wants to…to control me. I know how that will end. He will use me as he wishes until he is tired of me, then discard me like a garment that has worn thin or gone out of fashion. I will not be used that way again. Not by any man, god or wolf or what have you.”

“God fucking damn it,” Bucky sighs. “Loki, I treated you that way because I am a selfish asshole. I always was, even before I was a vampire. Wolves are not like us. They’re loyal and kind and good. Steve is…he’s so much better than me, it makes me sick to think of myself sometimes. I don’t deserve him at all. But he loves me. He knows the worst things about me and he loves me. I think Thor loves you the same way.”

“Do you really, Winter?” Loki sneers. “He said he loved me. Then he let his pack of filthy wolves put me on trial and sentence me like a common criminal. He held me prisoner in his house. For what? For doing what my nature demands. For hunting my rightful prey.”

“You agreed to abide by their laws. You violated them knowing what you were doing.”

“Yes, well, their laws are ludicrous. Do you know our kinds may kill no human who has not spilled the blood of his fellow man in their country? Where is one to find a supply of murderers in fucking Norway? The place is a cesspool of peace and harmony.”

“You could’ve hunted the way I do. Without killing.”

“Hunting without killing is like sex without…well, you know what I mean. I honestly do not know how you tolerate it.”

“My wolf more than makes up for it. You wouldn’t ever think of killing a human again if you were being fucked like that.”

“Winter, don’t be crass. I don’t—”

“And it just gets better, the more you’re together,” Bucky continues, with a devilish curl of his pouting lips. “They learn your scent signals and they can anticipate what you want. What you need. Steve plays me like a violin. He can almost make me come just by looking at me the right way. And their bodies are hot. Like furnaces. I’m never cold anymore.”

“I…remember,” Loki murmurs, then he shakes himself. “I see what you are doing, Winter, and it won’t work. I will not let that barbarian keep me for a plaything. I will not be told what I am to do and how I am to behave. Not even you did that.”

“He’s the ruler of his people, Loki. He had a responsibility to enforce their laws.”

“Ruler or no, he had no right to treat me like a slave.” Loki winces and looks up, realizing his mistake too late.

Bucky’s shoulders are tense and his green eyes are fixed on the floor.

“I’ve been a slave,” he says, in a cold, carefully modulated voice. “What Thor did to you was not slavery. It was merciful and it was just.”

“Merciful? Just? To be humiliated before a pack of animals? I am beginning to believe you have been so much among wolves, you are becoming one of them, yourself.”

“I’d be lucky to be one of them. Steve saved my life just by loving me. Thor saved yours by loving you. But you are such an ungrateful, arrogant bastard, you won’t see it. Maybe you don’t deserve him, after all.”

“Don’t deserve—he is an animal!” Loki says, with rapidly rising heat. “Your mate is an animal! It is an abomination for us to be bound to their kind!”

“I guess you’ve run out of logical justifications, since you’re grasping at moral straws, now,” Bucky retorts. “If you want to put it in those terms, we are the abominations. We’re pathetic hybrids made from a diluted cocktail of demon blood. We’re so weak compared to real demons, they consider us human.”

“But they do not consider us animals.”

“I don’t think anyone but you considers the god of thunder an animal. And if you ever dare to suggest again that my being with Steve is anything less than an absolute honor to me, I’ll rip out your fucking tongue and feed it to you.”

“Hey, whoa,” Sam (who has just stepped in the door with Clint) says, looking back and forth between the two vampires. “Why are we talking about ripping out tongues?”

“Winter is just being his usual charming self,” Loki says, rising from his chair to greet them with a polite bow. “I trust supper was pleasant?”

“Yeah, but we had to cut it a little short,” Clint says. “Steve called. We’ve got a situation.”

“When do we not have a fucking situation?” Bucky grumbles, as he walks into the kitchen to switch on the espresso machine. “What is it this time? Dragons? Aliens?”

“It’s Sharon.”

Bucky’s expression changes, and his pale face goes whiter. “What about her? What happened?”

“Her housekeeper found her unconscious. She’s at the hospital. They’re saying she’s in a coma.”

“Fuck me,” Bucky groans. “Do they know why?”

“We’ll find out soon. Tash is over there snooping.”

“Where the fuck are Steve and Thor?”

“Thor’s going to his hotel and Steve is headed here.”

“Hotel?” Loki asks.

“Yeah, the whole pack is at the Four Seasons,” Sam says. “Now, where’s my little Moo-moo milkshake? I bet she’d like some salmon.”

“Sam, you really shouldn’t spoil her so,” Loki says, arching a disapproving eyebrow, as the fluffy white furball comes trotting eagerly in and hops up onto the counter.

“Aw, but she wants it real bad,” Sam pouts.

“Alright, but not too much. She’ll be impossible to live with after all this pampering.”

“Hear that, Moo-moo? Your daddy says you’re getting spoiled,” Sam coos, as he scoops bits of the pink fish into a saucer, which Arabella immediately sets about consuming with unladylike zeal. “Good little piglet. How about a shrimp?”

“Did you eat any of your dinner?” Bucky asks, eyeing the rather full carry-out box.

“He ate all of his dinner and part of mine,” Clint says. “He ordered that extra stuff just for his cat girlfriend.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Wow, bird. She has got you wrapped around her little paw.”

“Well, I’ve got a soft spot for cats,” Sam grins, as he tears another shrimp into Arabella-sized bits.

“I’m not a fucking cat!” Bucky says, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“What?” Sam frowns.

“Um. Nothing,” Bucky says. “Hey, Clint, did Tash say anything about how long it would—Christ! How do you do that!”

This last exclamation is the result of the lovely demoness he’d just mentioned suddenly appearing at his side, giving him and Loki both a palpable start.

“Hey, babies,” she says. “Hi, Loki. Sorry for popping in unannounced. It’s kind of urgent.”

“I…ha—good evening, Natasha,” Loki stammers, giving a very stiff bow. “No apology is necessary. You are quite welcome to…pop in.”

“Thanks,” Tash chirps. “Winter, Sharon’s in stable condition. Nothing mystical going on that I can see, so we’re not moving her. I stole a little sample of her blood and dropped it at our lab, so we’ll be able to tell soon if the hospital missed anything.”

“I don’t know what stable condition means,” Bucky says, raking his fingers anxiously through his hair. “She’s unconscious? Was it because of me?”

“We don’t know yet, babe,” Tash says, laying a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be ok. She’s not getting worse and they don’t think she’s in any immediate danger.”

The elevator arrives at that moment, and the doors slide open.

“Hey, guys,” Steve says, in a marginally less cheerful tone than usual. “Oh, Tash, you’re here. Anything?”

“Not yet. Waiting on our lab. I stole some blood and dropped it off there.”

“Good. I don’t think the hospital is nearly as well equipped as we are. I really should go see her myself, though.”

“I think it’s a little past visiting hours, goldilocks. Her cousin is there with her, so she’s not alone. Don’t worry. She’ll be alright till tomorrow morning.”

“Ok,” Steve says, continuing to look worried.

Clint’s phone vibrates with a call and he excuses himself to take it in the other room, and Bucky begins drawing shots of espresso. Tash leans on the counter and strokes Arabella’s fluffy fur, as Sam continues to feed her little tidbits of her luxurious seafood supper.

Loki watches them from beneath his furrowed brow, observing the interactions between all of these various and quite different supernatural creatures. They really must think he’s a fool.

“Pardon me,” he says, when the noise of the espresso machine stops. “But you all must really think I’m a fool, don’t you.”

“What?” Steve says, taken aback. “Of course we don’t. What do you mean?”

“Come now, Steve,” Loki says. “You claim to be friends, but you are clearly an organized and experienced team of coworkers. You have a bloody lab, for god’s sake. No one just happens to keep a lab lying around. I know there was a jet and a battle with a Hydra and some kind of castle destroyed, and I want you to tell me what’s really going on.”

“Well, we—” Steve begins.

“We’re with Shield,” Tash interrupts. “You’ve probably heard of it.”

“Shield?” Loki says, raising a doubtful eyebrow. “Shield is a fairytale that supernatural creatures tell their children. Don’t let anyone find out about your powers, little Tammy and Timmy fae, or Shield will get you.”

“Well, surprise,” Tash says drily. “It’s all real. We work there. Sam and Clint are commissioned agents, I’m a consultant, and Steve is an independent contractor. Winter told us to go fuck ourselves, so he just hangs around and doesn’t get paid.”

“I don’t need Shield’s money,” Bucky scoffs, over the rim of his mug. “They couldn’t afford me, anyway.”

“You’re lucky they’re not billing you, Dorkula,” Sam says. “Let’s see, your prison uniform, the extra guard rotations, the doctor’s visit in your cell, the jet, the cleanup on the island…we’re looking at a couple million at least.”

“Pfft. That’s pocket change. Send a bill to my lawyers.”

“Prison uniform? Guards?” Loki asks, looking back and forth between them.

“Yeah, they captured me when I was still brainwashed,” Bucky says. “They had to keep me in a max-security cell with my arm clamped in this huge iron thing that was bolted into the floor.”

“They captured you and held you prisoner? And you are all friends now?”

“I would’ve killed a lot of people. It wasn’t that bad, anyway.”

_Starved. Suffered._

“I mean, I was blood-starved and that fucking sucked. But they did try to feed me, and they were all really nice to me.”

“Hey guys, bad news,” Clint says, reentering the room at that moment. “Uh…”

“It’s ok,” Tash says. “I spilled the Shield beans. What’s up?”

“Fury just called. The pricks are here.”

“Fuck me,” Tash mutters. “This is literally the last thing we need right now. Who does he want?”

“Me and Sam, as usual. And Steve.”

“Me?” Steve says, surprised. “Why me? And who are the pricks?”

“The US government’s official version of Shield,” Tash says. “But you can probably guess how similar the two agencies are. They’re called the Paranormal Research…something or other. We just call them the pricks. Which they are.”

“So…why are they here?”

“Shield works in cooperation with the US authorities for various very good reasons. We are not government subsidized, and they couldn’t demand oversight without controlling a huge amount of our funding, which was what they wanted. We dodged that bullet, but part of our agreement with them is a certain level of transparency on both sides. Unfortunately, a result of this is that they get to send some goons to survey our operations whenever they feel like it.

They show up every once in a while under the banner of sharing information, which means they want to snoop around and see what we’re up to. We show them what we think their human brains can handle and then they go away and report to their bosses that we’re not in violation of the terms of our agreement.”

“I guess that makes sense, but why does Fury want me to be there for that?”

“I imagine he wants to show you off to them, since they failed to locate you for seventy years, too. And you’re a war hero and all that. Having you on our team makes us look pretty good.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “I better come, then.”

“I don’t know,” Tash shrugs. “Personally, I think it’d be pretty funny if you told them you’re on an active case and they can fuck off, but that doesn’t seem like your style.”

Steve’s jaw sets defiantly. “I would, if it wasn’t Director Fury asking. I don’t owe the US government anything, and I don’t give a shit what they think of me or what I’m doing.”

“Ooh, getting wolfy,” Tash says. “You know how I feel about that.”

“I know you like to bully me about it,” Steve smirks. “I was going to ask if you could hold down the fort till I get back, but that would be a stupid question. Keep me posted, ok?”

“Sure thing. Have fun doing the dog and pony show. Oh, and tell Captain Price I said sweet dreams.”

“That sounded…terrifyingly ominous. Was it supposed to?”

“Yep,” Tash grins. “Later, goldilocks.”

“I’ll be back soon, Buck. This Sharon thing is going to be ok, I promise.”

“Ok, just don’t be too long,” Bucky says. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Steve says, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. “Sam, Clint, let’s go get this over with.”

 

 

 

 

Steve enters the conference room, followed by Sam and Clint, where he finds Director Fury seated at the head of the long table. In the chairs along the far side, there are five athletic-looking men in black t-shirts and combat gear, with military crew-cuts that make them look almost comically similar.

“Captain Rogers. Thank you for joining us,” Director Fury says, indicating to the chairs across from the military men. “Gentlemen, this is Captain Rogers, Agent Barton, and Agent Wilson.”

“Captain Rogers,” the blonde man says, in a pronounced Bronx twang, standing to shake Steve’s hand over the table. “It’s a real honor, sir.”

Steve shakes his hand stiffly. “Thank you, uh…”

“Allan, sir,” the man replies. “Captain Charles Allan. My men are Lt. Langley, Lt. Byers, Lt. Anderson, and Lt. Thompson.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Steve nods to the other men, as he seats himself.

“As Agents Wilson and Barton are already aware,” Fury says to Steve, “these men are with the Paranormal Research, Investigation and Containment Task Force, operating under the umbrella of the CIA.”

“I apologize for interrupting, Director Fury,” Captain Allan interjects. “Uh, it’s called the Paranormal Research, Investigation and Response Division now, sir. The brass thought it had a more diplomatic ring to it.”

“Well, whatever it’s called, Shield works very closely with this agency,” Director Fury goes on. “Captain Allan and his men are going to be here for the next few days observing some of our operations. I’d like you to show them around. Tell them a bit about what we’re doing.”

“With all due respect, sir, my team is currently on an active op,” Steve says. “We don’t have time to—”

“It’ll only take a couple of hours, Captain Rogers,” Fury says, unperturbed. “I’m pretty sure Tash can hold things together for that long.”

“Of course, sir,” Steve says, not bothering to conceal his annoyance.

“Ok, then,” Fury laughs. “Wilson, Barton, you know the drill. You three take Captain Allan and his men and give them the tour. Captain Rogers, you’re in charge of making sure no one gets eaten.”

Several of the military men’s faces go a bit green at this, which makes Director Fury laugh again.

“He was joking,” Steve reassures them, as the group exits the conference room. “None of us eat people when we don’t have to.”

For some reason, this does not appear to put the men more at ease, so Steve decides it’s best to change the subject.

“By the way, my teammate said to say hello to someone named Captain Price for her,” he says. “But that’s not one of you.”

“Captain Price transferred to another unit,” Captain Allan explains. “I replaced her about six months ago.”

“Where were you before?” 

“SOG. Nothing I can actually talk about. Sorry, sir.”

“I understand. And you don’t have to call me sir. I’m not in the Army anymore. And we’d be the same rank, anyway.”

“Yes sir—uh—Captain Rogers,” the man says awkwardly.

“I mean you can just call me Steve,” Steve smiles. “Falcon? Hawkeye? Where are we going?”

“I was thinking vampire division first,” Sam says. “Start things off easy. Then maybe sorce-tech. Or we could go down to the lockup. Show ‘em our new friend.”

“Vampire division then lockup sounds good,” Steve says. “We should call down before we barge into sorce-tech. I don’t want to bother Mr. Stark if he’s busy.”

“He doesn’t have anything to hide, does he?” Captain Allan asks, with mock suspiciousness. “The CIA’ll have my ass if something’s cooking around here and I don’t find out about it.”

“I don’t think Mr. Stark would care very much what the CIA did or didn’t know about what he’s up to,” Clint puts in. “He’s just weird about interruptions. And don’t try to hand him anything. He doesn’t like that.”

“Fair enough. I’d really like to see this vampire division. I’ve only run into a few, and they were all targets.”

“Targets?” Steve asks.

“That’s right,” Captain Allan nods. “My job isn’t pretty, but it’s necessary. We hear about a vamp killing women and kids in some war-torn village, we dust ‘em. That’s all there is to it. Those people got it hard enough without havin’ their kids drained and left to feed the coyotes and vultures in the desert.”

“I worked with some of your guys in Afghanistan a few years ago,” Sam says, as they step into the elevator. “You been overseas?”

“Yeah, I’ve been in Qatar, Afghanistan, and Rwanda. It’s policy to deploy a unit anywhere US troops or UN relief personnel are stationed. Back in the 70s and 80s, there was some big-bad bloodsucker going around to conflict areas and stirring the pot. Ripping out aid workers’ throats. Leaving their bodies strung up around their camps. They never caught it. If we’d been around back then, fewer innocent people would’ve died.”

“Did they…do they know anything about it?” Steve asks, attempting to sound casual. “Maybe we have something on it.”

“They used to call it the Winter Soldier,” Captain Allan says. “We think it was a ghost story, now.”

“Why’s that?”

“No one vamp could’ve gotten around the world the way it did. Not without a highly organized support structure backing it up. It was probably a bunch of different vamps wearing the disguise and operating under the name. Taking advantage of the fear it inspired.”

“That sounds like a reasonable assessment.”

“Well, none of our bloodsuckers are big-bads, so don’t worry,” Sam interjects, as they step off at their floor. “And they don’t kill anyone. Shield policy.”

“They briefed us on that,” Captain Allan says. “Pretty impressive, Fury being able to keep all the freaks on their leashes like he does.”

This remark is met with nods of approval from Captain Allan’s men, which makes Steve’s lip curl. He’s familiar with the attitude most humans who are aware of supernatural creatures have toward them, but hearing it in person this way disgusts him. It had also seemed oddly out of character for Captain Allan, who he had just been beginning to like.

In fact, the man doesn’t really seem to have any negative personal feelings toward vampires, at all. His scent signals are all friendly and genuinely at ease, as he is introduced to a few vampire agents around the office. Maybe that comment had been a bit of grandstanding for his subordinates. They, unlike their superior officer, are oozing fear and revulsion from every pore.

It’s a relief to Steve when they head back to the elevator to make their way down to the security sector. These men reek with chaotic emotions and he’s eager to be rid of them. There’s no way they’re getting anywhere near Josef. They can look at the Hydra soldiers in general containment, if they want something to report to their bosses.

“Agent Barton,” one of the vampire agents calls after them, just as the doors slide open. “I’ve got something for you, sir. You have a sec?”

“You guys go ahead,” Clint says, stepping back toward her desk. “I’ll meet you down there. What’s up, Aiko?”

Unfortunately for Steve, when they arrive in the sub-basement, Josef is in the process of making his presence energetically known, by way of banging on the walls of his cell and bellowing like an enraged beast. To Steve’s surprise, however, Captain Allan stops his men before they exit the elevator.

“You guys got a mess on post?” he asks Steve.

“Yeah, on the third floor,” Steve says, confused. “Why?”

“I just realized it’s way past dinner time,” he says. “I gotta make sure the men maintain proper nutritional intake, or I get chewed out by my boss. Agent Wilson, you mind showing ‘em where it is?”

“Sure,” Sam shrugs. “I hope y’all like soggy-ass cafeteria food.”

They move aside for Steve and Captain Allan to disembark, then the doors shut, carrying them back up out of the basement.

“Why did you do that?” Steve asks. “Why did you send your men away?”

“Like I said. It’s past dinner time and they have to eat,” Captain Allan replies flatly. “The military lives and dies by a schedule. You know that.”

“You’re aware I’m a wolf, right?” Steve says, crossing his arms. “What good do you think it’s gonna do to try and bullshit me?”

“Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” Captain Allan grins, making his hazel-blue eyes glint mischievously. “That was a joke, Captain Rogers. Those kids with guns they put me in charge of are scared shitless of everything in this building. I don’t need whatever’s down here making that racket to scare ‘em any worse than they already are.”

“But you’re not afraid. Why?”

“I used to be. I don’t work that way anymore.”

“You’re not—”

“Nah, I’m a hundred percent human,” Captain Allan says, with a mirthless little laugh. “Let’s have a look at this thing, huh?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “But you’ll have to observe him through the closed-circuit feed. We don’t let anyone into the containment area. Safety reasons.”

“Of course,” Captain Allan says affably.

Steve leads him down the hall to the security office, where the two men on duty jump to their feet to greet them. Steve explains who Captain Allan is, and asks them to step away for a few minutes, which they do with courteous alacrity. Steve sits at the desk and pulls up the feed, which shows Josef now sitting on the floor, rolling a tennis ball Bucky brought him between his hands.

“This is Josef,” he says. “Apparently, he’s a half-troll.”

“Josef?” Captain Allan asks dubiously, as the image pops up. “That thing has a name?”

“Yeah, as far as we know. The other guys called him that.”

“Other guys?”

“We captured him along with nineteen other hostiles. They’re in general containment.”

“Human?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s Fury gonna do with ‘em?”

“Probably send them to the Hague. They’re are all international offenders.”

“What about the big guy?”

“Don’t know. Fury hasn’t told us yet.”

“Yeah, well, it seems like there’s not a whole lotta choice, though. You know?”

“No. What do you mean?”

“I mean, this thing is a monster. Either you keep it caged up and let it suffer like this, or…you don’t.”

“That will be up to Director Fury,” Steve says icily, shutting off the monitor. “If you’ll accompany me back upstairs, we’ll rejoin your men.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Rogers,” Captain Allan says, as they walk briskly to the elevator. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended,” Steve says, pushing the call button. “I’m not even surprised, really. I know all about the military’s attitude toward our kinds. Firsthand. They let my unit die in a Nazi prison camp because they wouldn’t send human troops to rescue werewolves.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to you and your men, sir. I really am. But that thing in there isn’t like you. It’s a monster.”

“I’m a monster, too, Captain Allan. The difference is, Josef has the intelligence of a toddler. He’s not culpable for his actions. I am.”

“It’s not about culpability, it’s about safety. That thing is dangerous. It could kill a lot of innocent people.”

“So could I. So could a lot of us. But we don’t. Josef is a living creature who deserves to be treated with respect and compassion, just like the rest of us.”

At that moment, the elevator comes humming back down, and the doors open. Steve moves to step in and nearly crashes into Clint, who is stepping out.

“Oh, hey, Cap,” he says. “Glad I caught you. Can we talk privately for a minute?”

“I was just about to go up and get some dinner,” Captain Allan says. “I hear the mess here is worse than the ones at Fort Bragg, and I gotta see for myself.”

“I’ll be up in a few minutes,” Steve says, as the man gets into the elevator Clint has just vacated. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Captain Allan.”

“Those two club kids Winter bit,” Clint says, the moment the doors shut. “They’re dead.”

“God damn it,” Steve growls, with an uncharacteristic edge of impatience in his voice. “How?”

“The medical examiner at the NYPD is calling it respiratory failure. Our vamp division has tabs on those kinds of deaths for obvious reasons, and they sent one of our guys over there to take a blood sample. The ME doesn’t screen for a spectrum of chemical compounds in cases like that, but we do. Our lab found something they missed.”

He hands Steve a chart full of information he has absolutely no way of comprehending.

“It looks like a low dose of an extremely potent neurotoxin, only they can’t identify it,” he says, pointing to what looks like a photo of a series of colorful little blocks labeled alphabetically. “The closest known chemical they can compare it to is pit viper venom. Here’s Sharon’s tox screening. See that? It’s a much lower concentration, but it’s the same compound.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve says, pushing the charts back into his hands. “I have to go right now. Grab Sam and you two get back to Loki’s place ASAP. And tell Fury the tour-guide gig is off. We have real work to do.”

 

 

 

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

 

 

 

 

Thor arrives at his hotel feeling deflated and disappointed. Talking with Steve Rogers and his vampire mate had lifted his mood somewhat, but the solitary walk back had given him time to think, and thinking had led where it normally does. Namely, to self-reproach.

Despite having the clear moral high ground in the dispute, he can’t help but feel that his unsuccessful interaction with his mate had been his fault. He’s never been very good at diplomacy or restraint. Particularly when he is angry and certain that he is right. Which he is. And Loki must know it. So, why must he persist in being so stubbornly unreasonable?

The two women at the concierge desk welcome him back with effusive cheerfulness as he passes through the palatial lobby. He returns a gracious smile and nod, which, for some reason, appears to cause the young ladies’ wits to momentarily desert them. They break into a fit of giggles, and he muses on the strange behavior of human females as he rides the elevator up to his floor.

He finds the other wolves lounging about the living-room area of his suite, watching some absurd program on the television. They hop to their feet as he steps inside, as they always do to greet him, but they sense his mood instantly, and their postures shift from eager to sympathetic.

“Did it not go well?” Sif asks gingerly, as he flops down on the sofa.

“What is the opposite of well?” he sighs. “That is the way it went.”

“I see,” Sif says, frowning thoughtfully. “But…did you explain to him that he is in the wrong, and that you are right?”

“I did,” Thor says.

“I do not understand,” Fandral puts in. “He did not admit his error and concede?”

“He did not.”

“This is very strange,” Hogun muses. “Did you remind him that he belongs to you?”

“I did. He became angry and went away abruptly.”

The other wolves look at one another, bewildered.

“But certainly he will come back,” Sif says encouragingly.

Thor shakes his head. “I do not think he means to.”

The wolves manifest deep shock and sadness.

“But he must!” Volstagg exclaims. “He cannot abandon the pack, he is one of us!”

“We shall retrieve him,” Sif says, jumping to her feet. “Once he is back among us, he will remember his true place, and will be happy to be reunited with us.”

“No, no,” Thor says, holding up his hand. “It will be of no use to attempt to bring him back in that way. Loki is no errant pup. He is proud and willful, and a nobleman in his own right. He is descended in line unbroken from kings of this realm, and his blood does not forget it.”

“What shall we do then?” Fandral asks. “How will this proud young lord be won over?”

“His territory is vast and his position esteemed among his kind. We must demonstrate that we, too, respect it. We must approach him with deference, as one would any lord in his own land. That, I think, will be the only way to gain audience with him.”

“But surely he cannot think your position subordinate to his own,” Hogun says indignantly. “The kings of this world were brief and petty, compared to the least among Asgardians. You have held the protectorship of this realm since before his ancestors built their first cities.”

“That will hold little sway with him, I think,” Thor says. “In matters of the heart, all are equal, and none stands above another. I…I would give up all I have, make myself as low and humble as a beggar, would he only love me again.”

As he says this, Thor drops his head forward, letting his golden mane of hair hang about his face, to conceal his grief. The other wolves draw near and sit close about him, laying their hands on him in sympathy and shared sorrow.

“We will win him back, you will see,” Sif says. “Let us not weep until the battle is truly lost.”

Thor takes her hand and presses it gratefully. “You are right, my sister. My heart has ached sorely for him these many years, and being near to him has opened the wound afresh. But I have not given up hope. I will not turn from my purpose.”

“That’s the spirit!” Volstagg says, slapping him staunchly upon the back. “Now, all we have to do is ascertain how a vampire nobleman is to be wooed, and he is as good as returned. Does…anyone have any ideas?”

“The half-demon said a word to me regarding that,” Thor says. “It seemed strange, but she is wise, and I would not lightly discard her counsel.”

“Well?” Fandral says keenly. “Tell us, what was this word?”

“Cats.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Tash, you there?” Steve asks the empty parking lot outside Sharon’s hospital.

“Right here, goldilocks,” Tash says, materializing by his side. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I have to try to help her.”

“Ok. Let’s go.”

Inside the brightly lit lobby, a uniformed security guard is chatting with the woman at the reception desk. He glances up idly as the two walk in through the sliding doors, but he doesn’t appear especially interested in their presence, until they head toward the elevators.

“Excuse me,” he calls after them. “All visitors have to show ID.”

Steve ignores him and presses the button, as Tash flicks a wrist in the general direction of the reception desk. The security guard crumples to the floor and the receptionist slumps over her desk, both apparently unconscious. The elevator chimes, and Steve and Tash step on.

“How long will they be out?” Steve asks, as they ride upward, bound for the ICU on the third floor.

“Couple minutes. They won’t remember a thing.”

“Wow,” he beams. “Demon powers are neat.”

“I guess so,” Tash laughs. “They’re pretty handy for spy stuff. I can summon objects and send them elsewhere, create illusions, knock people out, get into their heads and make them do things, plus my fire and destruction stuff. No generative or restorative power, though. I can’t create anything real, or heal wounds or sickness, nothing like that.”

“Is that because of your demonic nature?”

“Yep. All my power comes from my dark side. I was born on the material plane, or I’d be more powerful, but mom wanted me to be more like a human, like dad.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Steve smiles. “Your parents seem to really love each other.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Tash says, making a face. “They’re so gross. I swear it’s like being around a couple of horny teenagers. Sharon’s room is down that hallway to the left, third door.”

“What about her cousin?”

Tash pauses and gazes into the middle-distance for a moment. “She is…downstairs. Cafeteria.”

“Good, that’ll give us a few minutes, at least.”

There is no one currently at the nurses’ station, so they cross to the hallway and Steve peers around the corner. Finding the coast clear, he follows Tash into the room she had indicated, and shuts the door softly behind them.

He feels a deep pang of sadness seeing strong, spirited Sharon so helpless like this. Her pretty face is pale, and her mouth and nose are obscured by clear tubes and the blue strap fastened around her jaw, holding a plastic mouthpiece in place. Beside her bed is a mechanical ventilator, which he can hear breathing for her.

“I’m going to have to take those tubes out to do it,” he says, eyeing the equipment doubtfully.

“Ok, so she has a nasogastric tube and an endotracheal tube,” Tash says. “All we need is for her to be able to swallow, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I can remove the endotracheal tube, but that’ll mean she’s not breathing. If she codes, this place is going to be swarming with nurses in about five seconds.”

Steve hesitates. “Can you put it back?”

“Yeah, I can resummon it exactly where it was.”

“Ok,” he says. “I’ll do it quick. She won’t need much.”

“Let me know when you’re ready.”

Steve’s blue eyes spark up and begin to glow amber-gold. He nods to Tash, then raises his wrist to his mouth, making a small incision with the razor-sharp tips of his fangs. The breathing apparatus vanishes, and he presses his wrist to Sharon’s mouth, holding her jaw open with his other hand. After a moment, he pulls away and the apparatus reappears where it had been, like nothing at all has happened.

“Thanks so much, Tash,” he says, breathing a shaky sigh of relief. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Well, you could’ve,” Tash grins. “Only it would’ve been a lot louder and messier. What do we do now?”

“We wait. The blood will neutralize the poison and fix whatever it did to her, then she should be able to breathe on her—” He breaks off and lifts his head, listening. “Someone’s coming. Not nurses’ shoes.”

“Cousin?”

“Probably.”

“I met her earlier,” Tash says. “She thinks I’m a doctor, so we should be ok. Just let me do the talking.”

“Got it.”

After about thirty seconds, the footsteps pause outside the door and the handle turns. As it swings open, Steve finds himself blinking under the brief, dizzy sense of disorientation that accompanies seeing a person one recognizes, but in a totally unexpected context.

“Josephine?” he says, bewildered.

The beautiful, dark-haired young woman stops short in the doorway, staring at him wide-eyed.

“Oh my god, uncle Steve!” she exclaims, in a posh, British lilt, as she rushes forward to embrace him. “What ever are you doing here?”

“I’m visiting my friend Sharon,” Steve says. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking after my cousin Sharon,” she laughs. “I had no idea you two were acquainted. Oh, hello, Dr. Rushman. I didn’t see you there. How is she?”

“No change, I’m afraid,” Tash says. “I’m just escorting Steve. He can’t be here past visiting hours without permission.”

“Of course, how silly of me,” Josephine says, turning back to Steve. “I wish it were under better circumstances, but it’s lovely to see you. Mama must be so pleased you and Sharon have become friends.”

“I’m not sure she even knows,” Steve says, still looking extremely confused. “Sharon and I met by chance a few months ago. I didn’t know she was any relation to you. This is…unbelievable.”

“Well, I suppose New York isn’t such a big apple, after all,” Josephine says breezily, seating herself in one of the chairs. “You must tell me everything you’ve been up to since we saw you last. London has been dreadfully dull without you.”

Steve doesn’t appear to hear her. His blue eyes are fixed intently on the unconscious woman in the bed.

“Something’s wrong,” he says to Tash. “There should have been some kind of response by now.”

“What’s wrong?” Josephine asks, alarmed. “What do you mean?”

“You look tired, sweetheart,” Tash says smoothly. “You should rest.”

Josephine’s big, brown eyes immediately roll closed, and she slumps back in her chair, fast asleep.

“What should we do?” Tash asks Steve.

“More blood,” he says. “It must not have been enough to counteract whatever that poison is.”

“You sure?”

“I have no choice. I’ll be careful.”

“Ok. Get ready.”

Steve moves to Sharon’s side again and they repeat the process, same as before, only he allows about twice as much of his powerful blood to flow down her throat before he draws away. He hopes it’s enough. He can’t give her any more without risking her human life.

This time however, the effects are immediate and pronounced. Before Tash has even replaced the ventilation tube, Sharon’s eyes flutter open and she blinks confusedly about. Her hands come up reflexively, attempting to pull at the tube coming from her nose, but Steve catches them and holds them.

“Hey, you’re ok,” he says gently. “That’s a tube the doctors put in. You don’t want to pull that out.”

She looks up at him blearily, apparently having difficulty focusing on his face.

“Steve?” she asks, in a weak, rasping croak.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he smiles. “You shouldn’t try to talk yet, though. You’ve been on a ventilator. Your throat is probably really sore.”

She nods and squeezes his hands, then looks questioningly into his eyes.

“Isabella found you unconscious, and they brought you here.” He moves aside and indicates to the young woman in the chair. “Josephine came from London to be with you. She’s resting right now.”

Sharon smiles and squeezes his hands again, then she notices Tash and gives him another questioning look.

“This is my friend, Dr. Rushman,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked her to consult on your case. She’s a—”

“Neurologist,” Tash cuts in. “Specializing in traumatic brain injury, which fortunately, you don’t appear to have suffered. I’m really just here as moral support, at this point. Your physicians have been giving you excellent care.”

Sharon nods politely, then cranes her neck to look at her sleeping cousin.

“Steve, why don’t you wake Josephine,” Tash says. “I’m going to go get a nurse.”

Steve goes over and gently shakes his young friend, who stirs and sits up, with a deep yawn.

“Oh, bollocks, how long have I—Sharon! You’re awake!” she exclaims, hopping up and hurrying to the bedside. “How are you feeling? Can I bring you anything? Right, you can’t talk yet. Tea? Where is a bloody nurse when you need one, anyway?”

“Dr. Rushman’s getting someone now,” Steve says. “Which means I better get out of here. I don’t want to be in their way.”

“Oh no, uncle Steve, don’t go,” Josephine pouts. “We’ve only just seen each other for a minute.”

Steve notes Sharon’s baffled expression and smiles sheepishly. “I’ve got to. It’s way past visiting hours and they’ll kick me out, anyway. But I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Sharon, I’m so glad you’re ok. I’ve been super worried. Would you mind walking me out, Jo?”

“Not at all,” Josephine says. “Lead the way. I’ll be back in half a moment, Sharon darling.”

She hooks her arm into Steve’s and walks with him toward the elevators, just as a troop of nurses come dashing down the hall into Sharon’s room.

“It’s really good to see you,” Steve says, embracing her warmly. “I’ve missed you guys a lot. Tell Peggy I did what she said, and I’m doing really well, ok?”

“Of course, but we will be seeing more of each other before I fuck back off to the land of fog and sarcasm, won’t we?”

“Definitely. There’s someone I’d love for you to meet. Oh, and Sharon and I don’t know each other very well, so…all the wolf stuff, that’s between you and me, ok?”

“Please, uncle Steve,” Josephine sniffs. “I’m an SIS agent, not a gossipy teenager. Of course I know not to go blabbing your secrets about. I assume that Dr. Rushman woman is a Shield agent?”

“Yep. You caught us. You’re still sharp as a tack, Jo-jo.”

“Don’t you dare! That nickname is an abomination, and you know it!” she says, giving him a playful shove toward the elevator door. “Begone, before I do something drastic, you old mutt.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Steve laughs. “Take good care of Sharon. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Steve rides the elevator to the lobby, where the security guard is still flirting with the receptionist, both having apparently made a full recovery from their fainting spell. He exits through the same double doors he and Tash had entered earlier, and heads down the street. After a moment or two, Tash appears at his side.

“Hey, goldilocks,” she says cheerfully. “So…who’s Josephine?”

“She’s Peggy Carter’s daughter.”

“Oh. Holy shit. So, your pal Sharon is related to the woman who founded Shield? Who would’ve guessed.”

“Not me, that’s for sure. Sharon’s last name is Baker, but…Peggy only had a brother, so she should be a Carter, shouldn’t she?”

“Unless she uses her mother’s last name or something,” Tash shrugs. “I don’t use Stark.”

“What’s your last name, anyway? I never even knew you had one.”

“I don’t, really. I just picked something to use on documents and stuff. It’s Romanoff.”

“Ooh, cool. Like the old Russian royal family.”

“The ones the revolutionaries lined up and shot in their palace basement, you mean?”

“Well…not when you put it that way.”

“Hey, Steve, Winter is not going to take this well. You really need to be there for him right now, ok?”

“Of course I will,” Steve frowns. “But why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. He feels…weird lately. There’s something cold and dark in him. It’s in all demon hybrids, but it feels like it’s getting darker and colder. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“I’ve felt that, too,” Steve admits, with a sigh. “I hope this doesn’t push him further down into himself. It hurts so much when he shuts me out.”

“It’d help a lot to know what’s happening to him. I just can’t figure out what it could be. There’s no spell I’ve ever heard of that can give a vampire a venomous bite. It’s just not possible.”

“You know, If I had a nickel for every time we dealt with something people said was impossible…”

“You kind of do,” Tash grins. “Shield does pay you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna double my rates if my cases keep happening to directly involve the love of my life being made to suffer in some way. Bucky’s so good and he’s been through so much. He doesn’t deserve all of this.”

“I know. But no matter what happens, we’ll be there to help him. He’s one of us, whether he’s on the payroll or not. You are, too. You guys are family.”

“Thanks, Tash,” Steve smiles. “That means a lot to me.”

“Well, what can I say,” she shrugs. “I always wanted a vampire with an enchanted metal arm and a werewolf demigod in my little collection of gorgeous boys. You two really round out the set.”

“I knew it,” Steve says, shaking his head. “We’re just toys to you, aren’t we.”

“More like action figures. And none of you are exactly in mint condition.”

Steve raises a blonde eyebrow. “I mean…I’m pretty close, though. Have you seen my ass?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Everyone’s seen your perfect ass, Steve. Now call us a cab before I kick you in it.”

 

 

 

 

 

“What the fuck do you mean, my bite?” Bucky demands. “I’m poisonous now? Like a fucking snake?”

“We don’t know for sure,” Clint says. “All we’re saying is that’s the best guess we have at the moment.”

“So what do we do?” Bucky asks, raking his fingers through his long hair. “What the fuck do I do?”

“Well, we need to get you to Shield and test your bite for…for venom.”

“I can’t just bite something, Clint. My fangs only come out to fight or feed. Or fuck. They don’t really know the difference.”

“What if we got someone to get your fangs ready, and then you could bite the testing device. Would that work?”

Bucky stares at him. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that sounds? It sounds like you’re offering me porn so I can give a semen sample.”

“Exactly,” Sam chirps. “We just want you to jerk your fangs off for science. What’s humiliating about that?”

“New plan,” Bucky says to Clint. “I’m gonna bite the bird man. If he dies, we’ll know I’m poisonous.”

“Well, it’s worth a shot—ow! I was joking, baby!” Clint says, arresting his husband’s hands. “Look, I know it sucks, but it’s the only way we can test the theory. It might not even be you doing it. Last time something like this happened, it was Hydra.”

“Hydra’s gone. I’m sure this is something they did to me, though. A parting ‘fuck you’ for getting free of them and thinking I was finally going to be happy.” Bucky sighs and shakes his head. “Fine. Take me in so a bunch of doctors can watch me bite a…what am I biting, anyway?”

“It’ll be a silicone gel model of a human head, like we use in ballistics testing. If there’s any venom, the pathologist will be able to extract and analyze it.”

“Gross,” Bucky says, with a distasteful grimace. “Who’s gonna be my fluffer, though? You have anyone that stupid on staff?”

“I’m sure we’d have a line out the door if we asked for volunteers, but I think we’d better just have Steve meet us over there.”

“He’s with Sharon. I don’t want to call him away from her.”

“There’s no need to disturb Steve,” Loki says, from his easy chair. “I’ll do it.”

“Not a fucking chance, Loki,” Bucky snorts. “It takes way more for a vamp to get another vamp feeling bitey. We’d wind up killing each other.”

“Well…there is that, yes,” Loki concedes. “Respectfully withdrawn.”

“What about Wanda?” Clint offers. “She’s human and she’s not scared of you. Plus, she can stop you if you lose control.”

“That’s actually not the worst idea,” Bucky says, biting his lip. “But she’d have to agree to it, and it might make her feel a little…weird.”

“I mean, she’s a blood witch who gives therapy to vampire secret agents for a living,” Sam says. “She probably has a pretty high bar for weird.”

“I find that my own bar for weird is rising steadily, as I spend time with you people,” Loki interjects. “I would wager that your witch friend is entirely immune to being shocked, by now.”

“Ok,” Bucky nods. “Call her and explain what we want to do. But tell her it’s not a big deal if she’d rather not. I don’t want her to do anything that makes her uncomfortable.”

“Such a gentleman,” Loki says drily. “Does this mean you’ll all be leaving me here, unguarded?”

“I don’t think your wolf boyfriend is stupid enough to—actually, he might be,” Bucky says. “Maybe we should have Wanda and the pathologist come here.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely. Please do bring your witch and physicians and all kinds of laboratory equipment into my home. Perhaps Shield would simply like to relocate and conduct the entirety of its operations from here.”

“Ok jackass, we’ll go there, then,” Bucky retorts. “You think you’ll be ok for a couple of hours without a babysitter?”

“Well, we don’t all need to go, right?” Sam says. “I can stay and hold down the fort.”

Loki dips his chin. “Thank you very much, Sam. It would ease my mind to have your company.”

“I see what you’re up to, you fucking sneak,” Clint says, raising an eyebrow. “You just want to stay here with your little cat girlfriend.”

“Correct,” Sam grins. “Have fun at work.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the Shield medical sector’s ICU, the overhead lights have been shut off for the night. The nurses’ stations are warm islands in the darkness, with small lamps that illuminate the space softly, creating an atmosphere of comfort and hominess in the the otherwise sanitized, institutional facility.

Most of the long-term care rooms in this ward are empty, since the majority of Shield’s agents are supernatural and rarely require such accommodations, but there is one room with an occupied bed. Though the patient isn’t considered much of a threat in his current condition, a security detail is posted outside this room at all times.

Captain Charles Allan, of the CIA-PRIRD, is not even authorized to be in the ICU, let alone to visit this patient, who receives no visitors. Oddly, however, the men on security detail don’t react to his presence as he approaches. They stand at perfect ease, maintaining their placid watch, as if they have seen nothing out of the ordinary, and make no attempt to hinder him as he enters the room.

Captain Allan shuts the door behind him, then pulls a chair over to the end of the bed. He sits silent, gazing intently at the sleeping man, in the dim glow of the baseboard safety lights near the door. After a while, the man stirs and shifts restlessly in his sleep.

“Wake up, Rumlow,” Captain Allan snarls, giving the bed a sharp kick with his booted foot.

The man in the bed startles awake and sits bolt upright, panting and blinking about in the darkness. As his eyes adjust, a look of recognition passes over his face. Then he gives a hoarse laugh and falls back onto his pillow.

“So, you finally found me,” he says. “Well, congratulations. You must be real proud.”

“Shut the fuck up, traitor,” Captain Allan spits. “The only reason I don’t put you down right now is cause I gotta make nice with these Shield people. And for some reason, they don’t want you dead.”

“I guess they think I’m gonna tell them something about Hydra,” Rumlow rasps. “A little late for that. The whole thing is under about a hundred tons of rubble in the middle of the Barents Sea.”

“I’m sure you got out with plenty of bargaining chips. Unless that Hydra brainwashing really did make you a fanatic.”

“You know me,” Rumlow says carelessly. “I was only ever loyal to the highest bidder. Your little toy got me in deep, too. Nice bonus. Set me up for life.”

“Loyalty can’t be bought, only rented. Isn’t that what you used to say?” Captain Allan sneers. “Before you betrayed your own men and left us all to die? Enjoy that money while you’re rotting in a federal super-max prison, you piece of shit. I hope it was worth it, turning traitor for those psychos.”

“Psychos? Yeah, maybe. But it’s not like your Shield buddies are any better.”

“Better than fucking Hydra. At least they’re trying to do something about these things. Not turning them loose on innocent people.”

“You’re a little old to be so naïve,” Rumlow scoffs. “Shield doesn’t give a shit what happens to innocent people any more than Hydra did. They’re just a bunch of monsters looking out for their own.”

“As long as they’re following the rules, it’s not my fucking problem. You know why I’m here.”

“Aw, you mean this isn’t a social visit?”

“That’s real funny. Tell me where it is.”

“Don’t know,” Rumlow shrugs. “Probably buried under the rubble with the rest of Hydra.”

“We’ve been to the island. The containment chamber was annihilated. It wasn’t there.”

“Then…I guess it could be anywhere by now.”

“I guess so,” Captain Allan says, leaning back in his chair. “You know why I’m here at Shield, right, Rumlow? I didn’t come looking for you. I left the SOG. I’m working with the PRIRD, now.”

Rumlow’s smug smile freezes on his face.

“Yep. Put me in charge of my own unit of spook chasers,” Captain Allan continues. He stretches his arms lazily, then rises and strolls toward the door. “You know I’m gonna find it, with or without your help. Then maybe I’ll come to whatever cage they’ve got you locked up in. Pay you a real social visit.”

“You—they won’t let you do that,” Rumlow calls after him, now thoroughly ash-white. “The CIA isn’t above the law. You can’t just walk into a federal prison.”

Captain Allan flashes a wicked grin over his shoulder. “Who the fuck’s gonna stop me?”

“Ok, wait,” Rumlow says. “I’ll tell you. Just—you have to swear not to come after me.”

“I’m not swearing shit. Talk.”

“You were right. I had it with me when Shield took us off the island. It fucked me up and almost killed me. I…I lost it.”

“You lost it here?” Allan says, stepping menacingly back toward his bed. “In Shield HQ? Who? Who has it?”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“I don’t need your fucking color commentary, just tell me who the fuck has it.”

“The, uh…the Winter Soldier.”

Captain Allan’s jaw muscles work beneath his skin, and his hazel-blue eyes spark with anger. “Fuck you, that’s a ghost story.”

“No, that’s just what they wanted us to believe. It’s one vamp. Always was. I know cause I was one of his handlers.”

“Bull fucking shit.”

“You don’t have to believe me. It’s true. Your Shield pals grabbed him before they took Hydra down.”

“Nice try, asshole. I’ve been in their lockup. There’s nothing there but your goons and a troll.”

“He’s not locked up,” Rumlow says, shaking his head. “They cut him loose and he has it with him.”

Captain Allan takes hold of his hospital gown and yanks him up to a sitting position, looking fiercely into his eyes. “You’re telling me that fucking vamp ghost story not only exists, he’s here in New York and he’s got—why the fucking fuck should I believe you!”

“Come on, man,” Rumlow pleads, holding his up hands. “Why would I say it if it wasn’t true?”

“How do you know he’s the one who has it?”

“It has to be him. I lost it when he came to the lockup to shake us down.”

Captain Allan stares at him for another beat, then lets go of him, stepping back and passing a hand over his brow. “Who else knows you had it?”

“No one. The other Hydra guys were just guards and grunts. They didn’t even know the thing existed.”

“What about the vamp?”

“The soldier?” Rumlow says, with a contemptuous laugh. “He didn’t know shit about shit.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“I mean they shredded his brain. Made him like a…a robot or something. They were using the thing to control him.”

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I’m just telling you what I saw. If you want to find out, you’re gonna have to deal with him.”

Captain Allan’s lip curls. “If you’re telling the truth for once in your worthless life.”

“Hey, I’m not exactly going anywhere. If it’s not like I said, you can come back and kill me.”

“If you’re lying to me, you’re gonna wish I’d kill you. Sleep tight, Rumlow. And keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“I will, I swear. I won’t say a word.”

Just as he reaches the door, Captain Allan pauses and pulls something out of his pocket. “I know you won’t.”

“Wait, don’t—!”

Before the sentence is all the way out of Rumlow’s mouth, Captain Allan has crushed the little silver orb between his thumb and forefinger, producing a bright-green flash of light. Rumlow falls back into his bed, stunned and insensible. Captain Allan turns and exits the room, leaving the door open behind him. The guards stare straight ahead as he walks past them and vanishes down the hall.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	31. Chapter 31

 

 

 

 

Having received word from Clint that they’d be testing Bucky’s bite for venom, Steve and Tash redirect their cab to Shield HQ, known to the public as the Lee & Kirby Banking and Trust building. Upon entering the main lobby, they see, to Steve’s immediate irritation, that Captain Allan is just entering from the opposite direction. Steve hopes the man will just go about his business, since he is no longer acting as his tour guide. To his further irritation, however, Captain Allan hails him and speeds his pace to meet them as they approach the elevators.

“Evening, Captain Rogers. Ma’am,” he says, nodding to Tash. “If you’ve got a minute, sir, I have a couple of questions about your team’s strike on the Hydra facility in the Barents Sea.”

“I’m very busy, Captain Allan,” Steve says curtly. “If you have questions about any of our missions, you can review the reports on the Shield database.”

“Well, that’s just it, sir,” Captain Allan persists. “I did review the mission reports, and there are a few things I don’t quite understand. I asked Director Fury and he told me to talk to you.”

“Captain Allan, was it?” Tash cuts in. “I lead the strike on Hydra HQ. I’d be happy to clear up whatever needs clearing.”

“Uh…sure,” Allan says, looking back and forth between her and Steve. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“No problem,” Tash smiles. “Steve, you go ahead. I’ll catch up. Captain Allan, why don’t we talk in my office.”

Captain Allan, finding himself with no choice, follows her away as the elevator doors slide closed behind a visibly smug Steve. Tash leads him down a hall to another hall, and finally to a door, which she opens for him.

“This is a conference room, ma’am,” he says, as she follows him inside.

“Yeah, I don’t really have an office,” she shrugs. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Well, there were, uh…there were a few things in the report,” he says, looking about uneasily. “I mean, the version I got was heavily redacted and I know you won’t tell me any of that stuff, but there’s other stuff that doesn’t make sense. Does that make sense?”

Tash cocks her head to one side. “You seem nervous, Captain Allan.”

“Yeah, well, uh…I don’t talk to a lot of demons, you know?”

“But you’re not.”

Captain Allan pauses and squints at her. “I’m—sorry, what?”

“I said you _seem_ nervous. You’re not. Why do you want me to think you are?”

He looks keenly into her eyes for a moment, then a sly smile quirks up the corners of his lips. “You’re pretty fuckin’ sharp, I’ll give you that.”

“I do what I can,” Tash says drily. “Why the act? What are you trying to distract me from?”

“Well, I was hoping if you thought I was too jumpy to be on my guard, you might get cocky and let something slip. I guess that’s not gonna work.”

“Nope.”

“It was worth a try,” he grins, letting his tense posture relax into one of casual self-assurance. “Maybe we should just be up front with each other from now on.”

“I don’t know how possible that’ll be for either of us. But let’s give it a shot, shall we?”

“I’m game if you are. Let’s start with that file, which by the way, was more blacked-out text than actual report. The redacted stuff, I don’t care about. I want to know why you took a team out there in the first place.”

“We got a tip from a Hydra turncoat.”

“That’s this Wanda Maximoff, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Who is employed with Shield now.”

“That’s right.”

“I figure she had pretty good reasons to flip on them, but, uh…what made you guys so willing to trust her?”

“Because she had pretty good reasons to flip on them. Is that all?”

“Nah, that ain’t all. The report also says you took twenty hostiles alive. Thing is, I been down to the lockup. You got one troll and eighteen grunts in there. I’m no Rhodes scholar, but even I can do the math on that.”

“The twentieth man is unconscious in the Shield ICU,” Tash says, unperturbed. “No visitors allowed, CIA or otherwise.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Shield’s withholding a high-value hostile asset from the US government.”

“What kind of high-value asset would that be, Captain Allan?”

“You ever hear of a vamp they used to call the Winter Soldier?”

“No. I’ve been working in supernatural intelligence for two decades with my head up my ass. You don’t seriously think Shield is harboring the deadliest terrorist in history, and the best story we could come up with is that he’s too sick to be seen right now, do you?”

“So, it’s true then,” he says, holding her gaze with his fierce, hazel-blue eyes. “It’s one vamp.”

“We’re not hiding any vampires in our ICU, Captain Allan,” Tash says, without skipping a beat. “You replaced Captain Price in your current post, is that correct?”

“That’s right,” he says, crossing his arms.

“What’s she doing now?”

“Promoted. Got a nice, cushy desk job at Langley.”

“I see. And what’s the non-bullshit version?”

“She couldn’t handle the job. Got paranoid. Started seein’ things that weren’t there. Almost shot one of our own men, thinking he was a monster or some shit. They couldn’t cut her loose totally bonkers and risk her telling the public everything she knows, so they stuck her at Langley to keep her quiet.”

“That’s too bad,” Tash says, with one of her cunning little smiles. “Stress really gets to some people. But it looks like you’re handling the job just fine.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he nods, as if taking her words at face value. “I’m honored by your high opinion.”

“I have to go now, Captain Allan, but I’ve enjoyed our chat. Oh, and about the Winter Soldier…be careful. You might not want to pull on that thread.”

With that, she simply vanishes into thin air, leaving him staring at the empty space where she’d just been. He stands blinking for a moment, then shakes his head, chuckling to himself as he exits the conference room.

 

 

 

 

“There you are,” Clint says, sliding down from the counter upon which he’s been sitting, in the Shield pathology lab. “What the fuck took you so long?”

“Sorry, I uh…got sidetracked,” Bucky says. “Everything ready?”

“Yeah, the thing is in the examination room, right there,” Clint says, indicating to an open door. “You know what to do. I’m gonna let the pathologist know you’re here.”

“Hey, witch,” Bucky says, as Wanda follows him into the room. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Oh, it is no problem. I am happy to help,” Wanda says, then she looks at the exam table and makes a face. “What is that thing?”

“That’s a ballistic gel torso. They didn’t have a head ready and apparently it takes like, three days to make one, so…yeah. We get to look at that.”

“It is wiggly, yuck!” Wanda laughs, poking the thing with her forefinger. “So, what do you need me to do?”

“Nothing really,” Bucky shrugs. “I just have to…you know. Smell your blood and hear your heartbeat and stuff.”

“Ok,” she says cheerfully.

He watches awkwardly as she slips off her dark-red jacket and hangs it over a chair, then takes a little elastic band from her pocket and twists her long, auburn hair up into a kind of loose bun. He finds himself suddenly unaccountably nervous, which makes no sense to him. He’s known the witch for decades and they’d been partners for most of those. In fact, he’s probably spent more time with her than any other one person on earth.

However, aside from being a powerful sorceress and his closest friend, she also happens to be a very beautiful woman. This is painfully apparent to him, as she looks up at him from her huge, long-lashed eyes.

“It’s ok, soldat, you can touch me,” she smiles, seeing his obvious trepidation. “I know you don’t bite. Well…you don’t bite me.”

“I…I don’t—this is weird,” he stammers. “I’m worried I’ll hurt you.”

“Oh, please,” she smirks. “As if I would let you.”

Before he has a chance to make another protest, she wraps her arms around him, pressing her soft, warm body against his cold chest. He can feel her pulse pounding in his own veins, the silent pull as the blood calls out to the demon. He hesitates briefly, then puts his large, strong hands on her tiny waist and pushes his nose into the soft little hollow behind her ear, where her sweet, intoxicating scent is the strongest. After a few seconds, he tenses up and draws back abruptly, looking down at her wide-eyed.

“Holy shit, we had sex.”

“What?” Wanda says indignantly. “No we did not, don’t be disgusting.”

“Oh, yes we did,” Bucky insists. “Murmansk, 1984.”

“Soldat, why would you even—” she breaks off and presses a hand to her forehead. “Oh my god, we did.”

“Yeah. You remember.”

“I do, now! It was fucking freezing cold, and we got drunk with those Spetsnaz soldiers at the barracks. I mean, I did. You got drunk _on_ them.”

“Yep, then we went back to the hotel and you were laying on the floor—”

“No, you were lying on the floor. You pestered me until I laid down with you, and you made me watch that terrible television show.”

“Airwolf was not terrible, you just have terrible taste,” Bucky interjects. “Go on.”

“It was terrible, but you were being sweet and snuggly, so I tolerated it. Then you said ‘witch, you’re so beautiful’ or some ridiculous nonsense, and then you kissed me.”

“I was snuggly because you were really warm. And I’m pretty sure you kissed me.”

“Please,” she says, with an affronted toss of her head. “Why would I do something so stupid?”

“Because I’m extremely sexy and you couldn’t control your—oh, no wait. You’re right. I did kiss you.”

“I know I am right, soldat. I just told you that you did the thing.”

“Well…you let me. So really it was your fault.”

“Ugh, and we had sex on the floor,” she groans. “What was I thinking?”

“I have no idea,” Bucky says, shaking his head disapprovingly. “You should be ashamed of yourself for taking advantage of me like that. I was a mental child.”

“You were a mental jackass,” Wanda retorts. “We had been away from HQ for two weeks. Your brain was almost back to normal.”

“I know,” Bucky grins. “I never would’ve tried anything if it hadn’t been.”

“Look at you! You are actually proud of yourself! Men are so revolting.”

“Whatever, witch. I know how hot I am. Don’t act like you weren’t thinking about it anyway.”

“I was not thinking about anything but what an impossible pain in my ass you were.”

“I am hot, though. Admit it.”

“Fine,” she says, with an exasperated sigh. “Yes. You are very handsome, soldat.”

“Well, don’t get any ideas. I’m with Steve now.”

“I swear to god I will break every bone in your—”

“I’m kidding! Look, I’m sorry we had awful, drunk sex thirty years ago. Thank you for being my friend in spite of that fact. And for saving us from Hydra.”

“You are welcome, but let us agree never to talk about it again, ok? I do not want things to be awkward between us. And I would rather my colleagues not be aware of my lapses in judgement during my misspent youth.”

“Agreed. I don't want things to be weird between us, either. Now come here and let me smell your neck till my fangs get hard.”

“You are so wicked!” she exclaims, slapping him on the arm. “I can’t believe you!”

“Yeah, you can. You do know me.”

“Oh my god, just get on with it already! But remember to bite that thing and not me.”

“Yeah, duh. I’m wicked, not stupid.”

 

 

 

Tash reappears in the medical sector, fuming over her interchange with Captain Allan. That fucking blonde prick got her to slip up, after all. He’d been digging for information on Winter and she hadn’t seen it. She can literally always read humans like open books, so what the fuck had happened?

“Hey fellas,” she says, as the guards outside Rumlow’s room snap to attention. “Anything interesting happen?”

“No, ma’am,” one guard says. “Dr. Cho was here at 19:30, and he’s been asleep since.”

“Good. I’m having the rotation doubled, so expect some backup in a few minutes.”

“Something wrong, ma’am?” the other guard asks.

“Not yet. Keep your eyes open, though. And don’t let any of those pricks from the CIA anywhere near here. If they so much as set foot in this ward, shoot them.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the guards reply, as she turns and strides out the double doors.

She calls the head of security and gives the order to double the guard, adding that the PRIRD men are to be denied access to all restricted areas until further notice, security is to inform her if they leave the building, and they are to be surveilled at all times. Bypassing the series of hallways and rematerializing in the lab, she finds Steve, Bucky, Wanda, and Clint, hanging around in the break room used by lab personnel.

“Hey, Tash,” Steve says. “How’d it go?”

“I fucked up,” she says irritably. “That fucking prick caught me off guard. And it looks like he’s digging for information on Winter.”

“Of fucking course he is,” Bucky says, throwing his hands in the air and almost swatting Wanda in the process. “I’ve been enslaved, tortured, re-enslaved, made to talk to my ex-boyfriend, and I’m probably poisonous now. What’s one more thing?”

“How’d he catch you off guard?” Clint asks. “I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

“I have no idea,” Tash says, falling into the sofa. “I feel like some kind of fucking amateur.”

“Maybe if you tell us what happened, we can figure it out,” Wanda offers.

“He was acting all nervous and I commented on it. He said he doesn’t talk to a lot of demons. I called bullshit on that, because it was an obvious act, and he said he’d been hoping to get me to slip up, which he did anyway. He said we had a Hydra guy we hadn’t shown him and suggested it was the Winter Soldier. I told him we’d never hide a high-value target that big with a lame story like he’s too sick to talk. The thing is…he didn’t know you were one vamp until I let it slip. Sorry, Winter.”

“I don’t care anymore,” Bucky grumbles. “Let the whole world know. I’ll poison-bite everyone.”

“No you won’t, Buck,” Steve says. “We don’t even know for sure that you’re poisonous, anyway.”

“But, Tash, how’d he know you were a demon?” Clint asks. “You told him?”

“God fucking damn it,” Tash sighs. “I guess I let that slip, too. So now a CIA prick knows Winter is one guy, we know something about him we’re not telling, and I’m a demon. We may as well have sent fucking Steve in there.”

“Seriously,” Steve frowns. “How’d he throw you off your game so bad?”

“That’s the thing, it doesn’t make sense,” Tash says, shaking her head. “He’s not…anything. He’s just some guy. He’s a hundred percent human and he—” She breaks off and her expression changes. “Oh, holy shit, unless he’s a Hunter.”

“A Hunter,” Wanda says, alarmed. “That would be very bad.”

“What’s a Hunter?” Steve asks.

“Demon hunter,” Tash says. “Regular human beings in every way, except they’re imbued with divine power to hunt and slay demonic creatures. That makes it almost impossible for us to sense their whereabouts or get into their minds, and makes us very vulnerable to them.”

“That would explain why he’s not scared of us,” Steve says. “But…wouldn’t divine power mean he’s one of the good guys?”

“Sort of. Hunters aren’t like fanatics, but they do tend to see things in a much more black and white way than we do. They’re born with the power, brought up in monasteries, trained by priests, and turned loose with the holy benediction to destroy creatures of the darkness.”

“So, if he is one of these Hunters, we’re all in danger.”

“Not exactly,” Tash says. “You’re not a demon hybrid, so he’s got no power over you. Clint either, since he’s a nonaligned earth spirit.”

“I’m a werewolf,” Steve says, confused. “I turn into a wolf and kill people.”

“But you’re not a demon hybrid like the regular werewolves, Steve. Sorry to say it out loud, but you’re a demigod. The rules are totally different for you.”

“Either way, we can’t have a demon hunter roaming around inside Shield,” Clint says. “We should toss him in the lockup till we know what’s going on.”

“He’s also a CIA operative,” Steve says. “If we detain him without due process, things could get very ugly between us and the DoD. How do we find out for sure if he really is one?”

“Carol will know,” Tash says. “Hunters are technically agents of the light, so he’d be on the books. I can’t get a hold of her cause she’s upstairs right now, but Clint could.”

“Alright, I’ll go,” Clint says. “But Sam will want to come, so I’m gonna stop at Loki’s first.”

“Take Winter with you,” Steve says. “I don’t want him anywhere near this guy, demon hunter or not, until I find out what his game is.”

“I’m still waiting to find out if I’m a snake,” Bucky protests.

“I will stay and call you with the results,” Wanda says. “There is no need for you to be here.”

“Fine, but I’m gonna be rude to Loki and smoke all his cigarettes,” Bucky retorts, crossing his arms. “I’m sick of his stupid face.”

“God damn it and I have Thor and Sharon and Josephine to deal with, too,” Steve says wearily. “I wish everything wasn’t always happening at once.”

“Who’s Josephine?” Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s Sharon’s cousin who happens to be an old friend of mine. I’ll explain later. You have to go.”

“Hang on,” Tash says, looking at her phone. “Allan and his men just checked into the temp lodgings in residential. They’re probably turning in for the night. Winter, you should be cool to stay for your results.”

“Well, now I don’t want to,” Bucky pouts. “I got all mentally prepared to leave.”

“You are in a contrary mood, soldat. You have been fussy all evening,” Wanda chides.

“Yeah, witch. I had to smell your delicious human blood and then bite that disgusting jelly torso. I’m way beyond fussy.”

“Jelly torso?” Steve asks, making a face. “What have you guys been doing?”

“He had to bite a ballistics gel mold of a human,” Clint explains. “The pathologist is testing the punctures for venom.”

“The pathologist didn’t find any,” a woman in a white lab coat says, as she enters from the hallway. “Sorry. Or congratulations. Whichever one is more appropriate. There was nothing in that bite but trace amounts of saliva.”

“That’s a relief,” Steve sighs. “Well, wait. Actually, that just raises a lot more questions than it answers. Cause the club kids and Sharon definitely had poison in their bloodstreams.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Rogers,” the woman says. “I wish I could tell you more, but frankly…this is the weirdest test I’ve ever been asked to perform. And I work with supernaturals every day.”

“I’m going to talk to Fury, find out how he wants to handle the situation with Allan,” Tash says, dragging herself up from the sofa. “Steve, you stay on comms in case they decide to do some more snooping around tonight. And I doubled the guard on Rumlow, since he definitely knows things about Winter. Clint, let me know as soon as you talk to Carol.”

“Ok, but it might be a while,” Clint says. “It’s not the easiest transdimensional crossing.”

“I’m aware. Thanks for going.”

“Buck, hurry and get back to Loki’s, ok?” Steve says. “We still can’t leave him alone.”

“Why the fuck not?” Bucky demands. “I just found out I’m not poisonous, and I want to go home. To my house. Where my things are.”

“Because we promised, Buck. Just because we have new stuff to deal with doesn’t mean our word doesn’t count anymore. We take things as they come, and still do what we have to do.”

“Ugh, I hate how good you are sometimes.”

“No you don’t,” Steve says cheerfully. “Besides, that means we can fuck in Loki’s guest room again, which really seems to cheer you up.”

“Aw, you know me so well,” Bucky says, smiling up at him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now get going. I’ll see you in a little while.”

Clint and Bucky take the elevator to the rooftop helipad, intending to fly back to Loki’s penthouse, in the interest of moving quickly. Dealing with cabs and things has always been rather bothersome to Bucky, anyway. He’s been getting more accustomed to it, since Steve is solidly earthbound and they’re so often together now, but he far prefers the freedom of his vampiric mode of travel.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Clint says, as they step out through the double doors. “What happens to your metal arm when you turn into vamp smoke?”

Bucky stops short, staring into the middle distance. “I…have no idea. Holy shit, what does happen to my arm? Maybe it obeys the same rules, since it’s magic? I bet the witch knows. She enchanted the thing.”

“That would make sense. But, uh…what happens to your clothes? Did you get them from witches too?”

“No, I got them from Barney’s. They don’t do a lot of magic clothing.”

“Barney’s huh?” Clint smirks. “What did that henley cost, like two-hundred dollars?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, then frowns as Clint bursts into laughter. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just pretty cute how you vampires are about your clothes. What about those jeans? Five-hundred? More?”

“I’m not telling you now, cause you’re making a thing out of it.”

“I wasn’t making fun of you, I was just laughing because I realized my entire wardrobe probably cost less than one pair of your ratty-ass faded jeans.”

“They’re not ratty, they’re distressed,” Bucky informs him. “And it doesn’t matter what they cost cause they’re worth it. They look really good on me.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Clint says, still chuckling. “How long will it take you to get back to Loki’s?”

“Few minutes. My vamp smoke is really fast.”

“Cool. I’ll see you over there.”

Bucky watches as Clint’s human body etherealizes, and his starlight-hawk form soars silently away through the night sky, high above the glittering city lights. Then he dissolves into black vapor and streams away after him, riding the currents of the air, curling around the corners of buildings, caressing the stonework as he flows over it with astonishing speed and grace.

_Blood._

God damn it, he should have got Steve to give him some blood before he left. This is not the time for a manic hunting episode. He ignores the urge and concentrates on propelling his dissolute mass over the rooftop of a commercial building.

_Blood. Hunt. Blood. Blood._

He reminds himself that he can’t get blood right now, and that Steve will give him some later. There’s no reason to flip out.

_Know you hear. Need blood. Hunt now._

What the actual fucking fuck.

His head—or mind, rather, since he’s just a stream of vapor at the moment—reels with horror. Suddenly unable to concentrate on controlling his disintegrated mass, his physical body rematerializes rather clumsily on the roof of another office building. He stumbles to a stop and stands tense and trembling, staring wildly about.

“I’m going fucking insane,” he whispers, passing a hand over his brow.

_Not insane. Starving._

“What the fuck! What the fuck is happening to me?”

_You know. You hear me._

“No. No. I don’t hear anything. I think I hear a voice in my head sometimes because Hydra put one there, and I still have trauma.”

_Trauma, yes._

“Exactly. I’m hallucinating.”

_No. You hear my voice._

“No, I don’t! You’re not real!”

_I am real, soldat._

“Fuck, this can’t be happening to me,” Bucky half sobs. He crouches and clutches his head with both hands, as if trying to physically force his mind back into order, whispering frantically. “I can’t be a slave again. I can’t have the collar again. I can’t. I won’t.”

_You must be calm._

The moment the words are hissed into his mind, Bucky feels his adrenaline suddenly drop off, as if a switch has been flipped. He sits down hard on the ground, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering. He’s so fucking cold. Why is it so fucking cold? It’s the middle of goddamned May.

_You are calmer. You will listen, now._

“No, I won’t fucking listen. Fuck you.”

_You will. You have no choice._

Bucky’s stomach lurches as the full horror of the situation begins to dawn on him. He can feel cold sweat beading on his forehead. This is some kind of sentient being. With a will and mind of its own. And it is…inside him, somehow.

_Yes. Sentient. Inside you._

“What the Christ? How the fuck did you hear that?”

_Hear your thoughts._

“But why? And why can I hear you? We killed the necromancer. Steve destroyed the collar.”

_Not collar._

“I recognize your fucking voice, you asshole,” Bucky snarls. “You’re my fucking collar.”

_Was. Not collar now._

“Then how are you in my head? How are you doing this to me?”

_Hid in human. Escaped island. Found you._

“Rumlow. When—when I touched him, you…got into me somehow.”

_Yes._

“Jesus fuck,” Bucky says, with a shudder. “How? What…what are you?”

_I have waited. Been patient. But you do not listen. You pretend not to hear. Time is running out. Now I must take control. Make you see._

“Control? What the fuck does that mean?” Bucky demands. He strains with all his will, but he finds his limbs are leaden and won’t obey his commands. “You can’t make me do anything! I won’t be a fucking slave, do you hear me? I won’t!”

_You are strong, soldat. I am stronger._

“No, please!” he gasps. “Please! You don’t—”

The words die in Bucky’s throat as his vision is swallowed by a blackness so profound, that it seems to be a physical thing, rather than an absence of light. An unlight. A darkness that seeps into every fiber of his being, as cold and black as the outer void. His head lolls backward, then his body collapses heavily onto the concrete, his open eyes staring sightless into oblivion.

 

 

 

 

“Do not look the cat in the eyes,” Sif says, reading aloud from her laptop screen. “Do not tower over the cat. Do not make noise. Do not thrust your hand out at it.”

“That sounds very complicated,” Thor says, squinting dubiously. “You are certain I am not to look him in the eyes?”

“This Jackson Galaxy is purported to be this realm’s foremost authority on felines, and a master of their lore. His advice must be sound.”

“Very well,” Thor sighs. “Proceed.”

“Do not rush,” Sif continues. “Even if a cat is…rubbing upon you, it may not be an invitation to pet it. If you reach for it too soon, you may break its trust. Do not give up if the cat runs away. This does not mean you have lost the war, only the battle.”

“That is a relief,” Thor puts in. “Though, if he is rubbing upon me, I shall be rather inclined to think I have won the war.”

Sif ignores this and reads on. “Bribe the cat with treats.”

“Treats? I suppose that might work, if I could ever understand what he wants. I can’t very well leave him a deer carcass.”

“You could. I would love a deer carcass.”

“As would I, but we are dogs. He is a cat.”

“Wolves,” she says indignantly. “And why must this cat behave so strangely? I am beginning to believe he does it solely to baffle and confound us.”

“It is in his nature to wish to baffle and confound us. Perhaps that is what pleases him. To know I am tormented wondering how to win his affection.”

“Perhaps, but it does not please you, and it certainly does not please us,” she sighs. “In any event, I believe Master Galaxy’s counsel to apply well to your vampire mate. You towered and made noise and thrust your hand at him, and he ran away. So, you must try quietness and reserve, and bribing him with treats.”

“I will speak to Steve Rogers regarding these treats. His mate and mine were lovers. He will know by what means I may appeal to Loki’s taste.”

“Were they lovers? How strange. They seem so very like to one another. But they are both beautiful to look upon.”

“They are beautiful, indeed,” Thor says dreamily, gazing up at the ceiling. “Very beautiful.”

“You are becoming distracted. Focus.”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Focus. I am focused. Like a laser. What were we saying?”

“We were saying that you are in dire need of your mate’s presence,” Sif replies, arching an eyebrow. “You have been distracted in that way more and more frequently of late.”

“You do not have to tell me. I am well aware of my…distractibility.”

“And I wasn’t going to say anything, but honestly, you’ve been a bit of a pill since he went away.”

“What?” Thor frowns. “He’s been gone ten years, I cannot have been a pill for ten years.”

“There are few things you cannot do when you put your mind to it,” she says wryly. “Being a pill included.”

“Well. Perhaps. But between Loki’s absence and my search for my brother, I have been in great unrest of spirit. Now I have found Steve Rogers, so once I have won Loki back, we will all go home and things will be better.”

“Do you know what we should do?” she says, closing her laptop. “We should contact Steve Rogers and invite him to take some lunch with us. We are becoming dismal sitting indoors this way.”

“That is a fine idea. Anything to get out of this room and be doing something.” Thor hops up and stretches his long arms, then pauses, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Ah, it is Steve Rogers calling now. Perhaps he had a similar thought.”

He touches the screen and puts the phone to his ear.

“Steve Rogers!” he says cheerfully. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Thor, hey,” Steve’s voice replies, sounding uncharacteristically strained. “Something’s happened. I need your help.”

“I am at your disposal,” Thor says, his brow furrowing with concern. “What is the matter?”

“It’s my mate. Winter. He’s…he’s missing.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

 

 

 

 

“I’ve been to his apartment, and over every inch of ground between here and Shield,” Steve says briskly, as he enters Loki’s penthouse. “Thor and the wolves are out covering as much of the city as they can, and Wanda is doing her thing. Any luck with his phone?”

“It was ringing through at first, and now it’s going directly to voicemail,” Loki says. “Either it’s been powered off, or it’s out of the service range.”

“Where in the city could it be out of service?”

“No idea. Even the subways have cellular coverage now. The sewers?”

“Oh, I didn’t even think of that. We should go down there next. Thanks, Loki.”

“No, Steve, I didn’t actually—”

“Hang on, I gotta take this,” Steve says, as his phone chirps at that moment. “Hey, Jo. How’s Sharon? Everything ok?”

“Morning uncle Steve,” Josephine’s cheerful voice replies. “She was able to eat breakfast on her own and she’s insisting she feels better than she has in years. They want to keep her a couple of days for observation, but as far as they can tell, she’s as healthy as a horse.”

“That’s a huge relief. I was really worried about her.”

“It looks as if you can put your worries to bed. She’s recovering splendidly. I’ve been calling it a miracle to annoy the doctors. One of them had been giving me the side-eye about her tracheal tube. She insists the nurses removed it, but he seemed dubious.”

“Don’t torment them too much, you little devil. They’re taking good care of Sharon. But listen, I’ve got bad news. I know I said I’d be by today, but something important has come up. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t apologize, I understand. And actually, now that you mention it…that might not be the worst thing. Staying away for a bit.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, I’ve explained that you’re just a family friend and not a professional acquaintance, but Sharon refuses to believe your meeting her was a coincidence. She got it firmly into her head that mama sent you to keep an eye on her, and she won’t be reasoned with.”

“That’s ridiculous, I wouldn’t lie to her about that. And Peggy would never do that.”

“Exactly, and that’s just what I told Sharon. Mama would never do that again. Especially after how she reacted last time.”

“Peggy sent people to keep an eye on her before?”

“Yes, but only to see that she was safe, and it was ages ago, back when she was at uni. Anyway, I’m sure she’ll come to her senses if we just give her a day or so to cool off. You know how we Carter women like to get up a full head of steam before we’ve thought things over.”

“Uh…ok, but I still feel like I should talk to her myself. I don’t like being thought of as a spy.”

“Well, uncle Steve, you are sort of a spy. I am, too.”

“Yeah, but not that kind. I guess it’ll have to wait, though, since I can’t see her today.”

“What’s the important thing that’s come up, by the way? Can you tell me, or is it top-secrety hush-hush stuff?”

“Sorry, it’s top-secrety hush-hush stuff for now. But I will see you before you go, I promise.”

“You had bloody well better, or I’ll be forced to tattle on you to mama. Good luck with whatever it is.”

“Thank you. I’ll call as soon as I can. And tell Sharon I really am glad she’s ok.”

“I will. Bye, love.”

“Bye, Jo-jo.”

“Jo-jo?” Loki asks, arching an eyebrow.

“My friend, Josephine,” Steve says, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “She’s the cousin of that woman Winter bit. Are you sure you’re ok with all this? I mean, us using your home as our base of operations? You’ve got a lot going on right now.”

“Steve, I know I must seem petty and melodramatic to you,” Loki says. “And I am. But if I were not willing to put my personal troubles aside when Winter is missing and his life may be in danger, what kind of friend would I be?”

“You’re right,” Steve smiles. “Thank you. It means a lot to me to know that you care about him, too. Even after everything he put you through.”

“Nonsense,” Loki says, shifting uneasily in his chair. “I am certain he has told you all about me and how dreadfully I’ve behaved.”

“Yeah, he told me his side. But we’re talking about a complicated, emotionally volatile relationship. Of course his perspective is going to be skewed in his own interest.”

“I see. Perspective aside, though, many of my past actions have been less than admirable. You can’t have formed a very good opinion of me.”

“Well,” Steve shrugs. “You were a kid.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When Winter turned you, you were just a kid. You barely had any experience of the world and then you were suddenly this other thing, and you had to relearn who you were and how to relate to everything around you. That must have been hard for you.”

“It was,” Loki says, looking away. “Quite difficult.”

“I’m sorry. This is too personal.”

“No, not at all. I was simply caught off guard. No one has ever spoken to me this way regarding my transition.”

“Most people couldn’t understand it the way I can,” Steve says, sitting in the easy chair beside Loki’s. “We were both kids when we changed. Winter was young too, but he’s had hundreds more years than we have to come to terms with what he is. Compared to him, you and I are still just getting our sea legs.”

“I suppose we are,” Loki smiles. “Strange, that we come from such different worlds, you and I, and yet we are not so far apart in age.”

“When were you born?”

“Eighteen forty-five.”

“So you were seventy-three when I was born.”

“Yes, but fifty-one of those years were after my natural death. Winter changed me when I was twenty-two. Barely a man, yet, even in those days.”

“Like I said. You were a kid. You’re really hard on yourself for things you did trying to cope with your power and the isolation that comes with it.”

“I was always isolated. Between my poor health and my family’s position, and the sight I inherited from my mother, there was little common ground to share with any potential companions. I always felt…other than everyone else.”

“Is that why you went looking for a vampire? You wanted to connect with someone who was isolated and different, too?”

“It was, partly. But I think chiefly it was my feeling of…powerlessness, that drove me to it. I had lived a sheltered life, and without my mother to guide me, the sight was like a window open on a cosmic tempest. I was unprepared for the knowledge of the vast scope and terrifying size of the world, and the accompanying awareness of my insignificance and weakness, in the face of it all. I wanted some control over something. I wanted to be able to protect myself.”

“But why Winter, specifically?”

“Most vampires of any significant power were so ancient and insane, it would have been suicidal to approach them. Winter was old enough to have become formidably powerful, but still young enough to have retained much of his humanity. And, by all accounts, he was the most beautiful of their kind ever to have existed. So, I studied him. Learned all I could of him. I even managed to acquire a painting of St. Sebastian he was said to have sat for when he was the lover of Pietro Ricci.

When I had absorbed a strong enough impression of him, I took the trance every night until I found him. It nearly killed me, but at last I saw him. He was everything I had hoped for. In addition to being old and powerful, he was charming, spirited, and extraordinarily beautiful, as the tales had said.

I watched him, when I could, to ascertain his location and habits, and formed my plan. I would travel to New York City in the United States, and I would offer him a partnership and what amounted to nearly half my fortune, if he would change me. The sight would not show me whether my venture would succeed or no, but I considered it worth the risk, and so I went.

He was infinitely more beautiful in person than even through the sight, and I could feel his power radiating from him like heat from a fire. I also saw that I had been correct in what had drawn me to him. He was alone, like I was. He longed for companionship and an equal with whom to share the burden of his immortality.

I should have been more afraid of him, but youth is rash and bold, and so I approached him and made my proposal. He spoke harshly to me at first and he tried to frighten me out of it, but the moment he hesitated to kill me, I knew my point had been won.

Had I simply offered him money, he’d have killed me then and there for my insolence. I offered him what he wanted. A partner. I also made it clear that my offer was time limited, so he could not dally forever in indecision. After a short time and some token protests, he agreed to change me.”

“You were dying, right?” Steve asks. “That’s why it was time limited?”

“I…told him I was dying,” Loki says hesitantly. “It was not strictly true.”

“You lied to him about your sickness?”

“I was truly ill, but I was not dying in any immediate sense, no. The illness was slowly crippling my body. I had fits of uncontrollable shaking and terrible pain. I would have lived many years, but in a degenerated and increasingly helpless condition, to be cared for by servants till I wasted away in my bed. That I would not do, by any means. I had a second plan in place, if Winter did not agree to my proposal.”

“What was your backup plan? Get bitten by a werewolf?”

“I was going to kill myself. To die with dignity while I still had it.”

“Oh. Did he know?”

“He never knew about the backup plan, as you put it, but I confessed to him long ago that I had not been as near to death’s door as I had led him to believe.”

“How did he take it?”

“He called me a viper and a liar without shame. He said I’d got what I’d deserved, then, taking the curse from him and he hoped I’d be burned by the Christians. Then he went away and I did not see him for a year.”

“I get the feeling he did that a lot. Took off and left you by yourself.”

“Leaving was the only way he could really punish me. When he stayed to fight, I knew he cared enough to want to hurt me.”

“That’s not very healthy, Loki.”

“Far from it, but you needn’t look so worried. I was nearly as strong as him, and a formally trained boxer and swordsman, rather than simply a clever street brawler, as he was. I had the best of him in many of our altercations. Besides, if it had come to blows, we were close to reconciling. When he was really angry, I would be left alone until he had tired of whorehouses and noblemen’s ‘hunting lodges’, and wanted to fuck someone he wouldn’t have to worry about killing. But after I confessed about my illness, things were never the same between us, even when he returned. He never forgave me for that lie. I think he blamed it for his being burdened with my existence.”

“It doesn’t sound like he was very patient with you.”

“No, not at all,” Loki laughs. “But that is not unique to me. Winter has never been patient with anyone about anything. Too much of the fiery Irish rustic in him.”

“I would love to have seen him back then, with his native accent and everything. I bet it was adorable.”

“It was rather charming. Though, I am glad he disposed of it. Half the time I couldn’t understand a word he said, and the other half, I couldn’t tell if he was speaking seriously or in jest. His Brooklyn-bred manner of speech suits him better. It seems much more natural to him, somehow.”

“I like how he talks, too,” Steve smiles. “He sounds like…home.”

“Of course he does, you love him. He loves you, as well. He is so very different now, it almost makes me regret that I could not change that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your love changed Winter’s life. Made him better than he was. When I was with Thor, I was the same as I had always been. I hid my true mind, manipulated people, sought my own advantage, killed innocent humans. I was no different.”

“But, Loki, Winter didn’t just turn into another person overnight. Love is a powerful force for good, but it isn’t a magic cure. It took years and years of hard work and determination for him to get where he is.”

“Steve, may I confide something in you, that you must tell to no one?”

“Of course,” Steve says. “Unless it’s something that could hurt you or someone else, obviously. Otherwise anything you say to me stays between us.”

“The funny thing is, I actually believe you,” Loki laughs. “You really are pure good, aren’t you.”

“I mean…I guess,” Steve says, his cheeks flushing pink. “I try my best to be good.”

“And you succeed. What I want to tell you is something of which I must admit I am ashamed. I was in love with Winter. I loved him with my whole young, unwary soul. And I always knew he did not love me. But I clung to him despite that. I humiliated myself and allowed him to treat me any way he wished. When I believed he had abandoned me at last, I let myself grow cold and hard, and I became stronger. Emotionless, dispassionate, calculating. As I grew stronger, I grew ever more ashamed of the way I had allowed myself to be used. I swore I would never be the fool of love again. That I would never love again, at all.”

“What about Thor? You said you loved him. You agreed to be his mate.”

“I said I loved him, but I did not. When he confessed his love to me and asked me to be his mate, I saw an opportunity to increase my influence. I was already deep in his counsels, and I supposed that if I took him for a mate, I could pretty fairly rule from behind the throne, as it were. That is who I am. A serpent as Thor called me, or a viper as Winter so affectionately put it. You are very kind to concern yourself with me, but you are only wasting your time and effort. I am a lost cause.”

“No,” Steve says firmly, shaking his head. “I don’t believe in lost-causes and you’re certainly not one. You hide behind this mask of aloofness and self-interested detachment, but under all that ice, you’re just a scared, wounded kid who’s afraid to be hurt again. You love Thor as much as he loves you, but you’re fucking terrified of what that means. What you could lose if you let down your defenses and let yourself be loved.”

Loki leans back in his chair and looks away out the window, his lips drawn tight and his expression unreadable. He doesn’t smell like anger, though, so Steve decides to wait for him to respond. After a moment, Loki takes one of his black cigarettes from his gold case and lights it, and proceeds to puff on it contemplatively.

“Thor does not love me,” he says at last. “He fell for my craft and my cunning, not for me, as I truly am. Sooner or later, he would have learned my true character, decided that I was unworthy of him, and discarded me. I simply moved the process along to what would have been its natural conclusion.”

“Come on, Loki,” Steve sighs. “I can see right through you, and I’m a thousand years younger and not even half as powerful as he is. Do you really think he didn’t know you when he fell in love with you?”

“He cannot have known me,” Loki says numbly, staring at the glowing ember of his cigarette. “How could one like him truly love someone like me?”

“How could—listen, I don’t know if this is just something that comes with the vampire territory, or if it’s what draws you into the thing, but you and Winter both have seriously fucked self-concepts. I mean, you know how beautiful and charming you are, but you both seem to think those are your only redeeming qualities. It drives me crazy how badly you think of yourselves.”

“Life has done little to teach us otherwise. Winter was a whore. I was an isolated cripple. Then we became these parasitic demons that feed upon the blood of the living. Whatever redeeming qualities we may have are far outweighed by that, alone.”

“They don’t have to be. Winter doesn’t kill people. He did when Hydra forced him to, but he hasn’t killed a human intentionally in seven decades.”

“Among our kind, that is considered weakness.”

“Yeah, but your kind also think wolf blood is poison, and that being alone is better than having people who care about you. Vampires as a whole don’t seem to be very smart.”

“That is fair, enough, I suppose. You know—wait a moment, I have a thought on how to deal with your Captain Allan.”

“You do?” Steve frowns. “That’s a hell of a non-sequitur, Loki.”

“No, it is related, you will see,” Loki says urgently. “What does one do, when one desires to achieve some goal, but has far less power than those around him?”

“I…don’t know.”

“One uses information, cunning, and deception, as I have always done. Mark my words, if an opponent who is weaker than you willingly engages you in battle, you can be certain he knows more than he is letting on. This Captain Allan is human. Whatever his true motives are, he would not have entered the lion’s den unwarily, unless he is a great fool.”

“He doesn’t seem like a fool to me. He does seem like he’s hiding something, for sure. But how do we get it out of him? Fury says we’re not allowed to interrogate him, since he’d rather not piss off the nuke-happy idiots at the DoD—his words—unless we have something concrete.”

“We beat him at his own game,” Loki says, with a sly smile. “And when it comes to this particular game, I am a far more seasoned player than he will expect to face.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Soldat.**

**Soldat, wake up**.

I’m…I’m not sleeping. I can’t see. Where am I?

**We are going somewhere safe. Underground.**

Underground?

**Abandoned subway station. Will be there soon.**

Why can’t I see?

**Trying to use eyes. Must see with our sight.**

Our sight?

**No eyes. Our body sees. You must try.**

Bucky can’t help but feel a little foolish, since he has no idea what trying even means, but he concentrates and gives it his best shot. His mind reels as the numb, floating feeling he’s been adrift in abruptly changes, electrifying all his limbs with startlingly intense sensation.

He feels himself gripping stone and climbing, crouching and darting stealthily along, leaping up and hurtling through the air. Plummeting downward, catching hold of something and swinging back upward, his feet hitting a solid surface and running again. Except he’s not doing any of these things by his own will. He has no control of this body at all.

I can feel us. Our body. But I still can’t see.

**Close your eyes.**

I can’t do anything, how can I close my eyes?

**Try.**

Fine, but it’s not going to—hey it worked! Holy fucking shit! It’s the middle of the fucking day!

**It is morning.**

I haven’t seen daylight in four-hundred years! Everything is so…bright and colorful. Gross.

**Yes. It is gross.**

At least I know I don’t miss the sun now. What the fuck are we doing on this roof?

**Hiding. Waiting. Do not want to be seen.**

Seen? By who?

**People.**

Are we scary? What do we look like?

**Large. Black. Many teeth. Frighten humans.**

That does sound scary.

**Must also hide from wolves. The witch. They are looking.**

They don’t need to see us to find us, collar. If the wolves don’t smell us, the witch will sense us with her magic.

**No. Wolves cannot smell us. Witch cannot see us with magic.**

Oh. Why not? Are you a demon?

**Void.**

What?

**Living void.**

Ok…I’m not gonna lie, that sounds pretty fucking cool.

**Yes. It is cool.**

But I don’t really know what it means.

**My kind. The living void. The hunger. The hive. The will of the thousands. Made by god of the void.**

Wow. Made for what?

**Slaves. Obey his commands. Consume all life and light. Make void again.**

Your people were made just to be slaves?

**Yes.**

Are you slaves now?

**No. Broke free. Defeated him. Void god is caged. Man in loud machines is dead. Old man is dead. Never be slaves again. Never.**

I don’t want to be a slave again, either. Collar…you’re not going to make me a slave, are you?

**Not collar. Will not make you a slave. Never again.**

I know you’re not my collar anymore, but I don’t know what else to call you. What’s your name?

**Venom.**

Your name is fucking Venom? Holy shit, that’s badass name!

**Yes. It is badass.**

Did you pick it yourself?

**No. Do not have names until bonded with host. We were Venom. My other and me, together.**

Who was your other?

**Do not know. Only feel his absence. Cannot see his face. Cannot remember his name.**

Do you remember anything else before Hydra?

**Some things. Remember the void. The hive. The voices of the many. Then…no things. Only feelings. Loneliness. Pain. Grief. Rage. Hunger. Always hunger.**

That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.

**You feel sorrow for my pain. Why?**

In that memory, or whatever it was you showed me, I felt what they did to you. How you suffered. They did the same thing to me. They took away our minds and made us slaves. My pain was just like yours.

**Yes. Much like. But smaller, because you are smaller.**

I guess so, yeah.

**And you are weaker. I am very strong.**

I can feel it. You’re unbelievably strong. And fast.

**Yes. Very fast.**

I want to help you, Venom. I want to help you find your other.

**Why?**

The same reason I feel sorrow for your pain. The men that did this to us are dead, but we’re still suffering because of them. If I can help you, maybe the damage they did will be a little less than they intended.

**You are kind. Like you. Liked you before.**

You liked me?

**Yes. Your mind is gentle. No cruelty or hate in it.**

Uh, I was pretty cruel when I was the soldier, Venom.

**I made you cruel. You did not want to be.**

They made you make me. You didn’t want to do it. I’m sorry.

**I also am sorry.**

Oh shit, are we already here? You’re amazing at this climbing and leaping around stuff.

**Yes. I am amazing at climbing and leaping around.**

We should go in through that manhole. Do you think you can pry the cover off?

**Yes. Very strong.**

Quick. Let’s get down there before someone sees us.

**It is small. We will not fit.**

We will. You just have to smoosh us in.

**Stuck.**

We can get unstuck. Just push more to that side and—good, now lift your arms up—see? Told you we’d fit.

**Yes. We smooshed adequately.**

Don’t go away yet, though. There are drain grates all along here till we get further in. I’ll still burn without you.

**Will not go away.**

Hey, wait. Go over to that truck. I want to see us in the window.

**We look very cool.**

Holy shit, we’re fucking huge. You have a fuckload of teeth.

**Yes. Fuckload of teeth. Good for biting off heads.**

Heads? Is that what you eat?

**Yes. Heads. And chocolate.**

Gross, chocolate? How can you eat that garbage?

**You are gross! Not garbage! Tastes good!**

Well, they must have changed the recipe since the 1630’s then, cause last time I tasted some, it was like a mouthful of burnt chalk.

**Maybe changed recipe. Do not know what is burnt chalk.**

Wow. We really do look like something I’d call the living void.

**Others will fear us. Not understand. You must hide me.**

Steve will understand.

**Like Steve. He is good. You love him.**

Yeah, I do.

**You are good, too.**

Thank you.

**Not very good, like Steve. Some good.**

Thanks.

**You are welcome.**

Listen, you just said yourself that Steve is good, right? If you let me talk to him, he’ll help us. He won’t let them try to take you away.

**Do not know. Want to trust him, but…he is strong. Has great power.**

You’re afraid he’ll hurt you.

**Yes.**

Ok, so, how about this. We’ll keep you hidden for now. I’ll call Steve and let him know I’m ok and ask him to meet us somewhere alone, so we can talk to just him. Gauge his reaction before we let him see you.

**Cannot call Steve. No telephone here.**

Where’s my cell phone?

**It made many irritating sounds while you were unconscious. Threw it off roof.**

Well, thanks. So I guess we’ll have to wait till dark and go back to Loki’s. Once everyone has calmed the fuck down, we can take Steve somewhere else and talk to him. That way if he freaks out, which he won’t, we can run away. Will that make you feel safer?

**If we run away, they will hunt us.**

I’m telling you, we won’t have to run. Not from Steve.

**He will be angry. Think I have hurt you.**

He won’t, because I’ll explain everything to him.

**Perhaps. Not sure. Afraid.**

If we’re going to do this, you have to trust me, Venom. You know I’m not lying to you. I promise, you can trust Steve.

**Must go to Loki’s to find him?**

We can’t go to Shield. That’s the only other place he’ll be.

**Do not trust Loki. Lies. Uses chemical tricks. Tried to kill you.**

Yeah, but…those things are kind of my fault.

**Yes. Was listening. You were both very stupid. Made each other feel pain.**

I know. But I’m trying to make it right.

**He must return to his mate. That is right.**

We can’t force him to do that, but who knows. Maybe you can help me talk some sense into him.

**Sense, yes. He has little.**

Well, he’s young. And fucked up. But he’s not bad because he wants to be. He’s just hurting and scared.

**Yes. You hurt him and made him scared.**

Venom, has anyone ever taught you about polite social lying?

**No.**

Great. So, you’re Steve part two.

**Not Steve part two! Much cooler than Steve!**

Aw, don’t pout. I know you’re cooler than Steve.

**And scarier. Many teeth. Eat humans.**

Well, Steve eats humans, too. But only bad guys.

**I only eat bad guys. Steve did not invent only eating bad guys.**

Alright, alright. You’re much scarier and cooler than Steve, and you were only eating bad guys first, you happy?

**Hungry.**

I think you’re always hungry.

**Yes. Always hungry. Starving.**

As soon as the sun’s down, I can bite someone, but you have to promise no more venom. We killed those guys at the club and almost killed Sharon.

**Promise no more venom.**

And no more forcing me to bite people when you’re hungry. I won’t let us starve.

**You will. You drink wolf blood and make us sick. No nice, sweet human blood for days and days.**

Well, I won’t do that anymore now that I know you need human blood. If you’d talked to me sooner, I could’ve got you some without flipping out and killing people.

**Tried to talk. You flipped out.**

You woke me up calling me soldat and scared the shit out of me. How was I supposed to react?

**You are easily scared. We are here. Hide in train.**

Jesus, this thing is like a hundred years old. No way that door’s coming open. We’ll have to tear it off.

**Weak door. Earth metal is pathetic.**

Ugh, it smells like dry-rot and rust have been fucking in here.

**Smell matters little. No sunlight. No humans. You will be safe.**

That’s something, I guess. It’s still all dirty and gross.

**Vampires are fragile. And complicated. Humans more fragile. But easier.**

Yeah, they can go out in the sun without exploding, so I’d say they have it a bit easier. But I mean, we do eat them, so it’s a give and take.

**I will go inside now. You must rest.**

Hey, Venom? Was your other a human?

**Yes. Remember his heartbeat and his warmth. Miss him. Hurt for him.**

I know. We’ll find him. I’m going to help you.

**Ready?**

Ready.

“Ahhhh—ow! Holy shit, that felt weird.”

_You will get used to it. Will feel less weird._

“I sure hope so, cause it felt like Jonah getting thrown up by the whale,” Bucky grumbles.

He kicks some debris out of the way, then stretches out on the floor between the dilapidated remains of benches, that once served as luxury-class seats on the ancient, disused train car.

“Wake me up at sunset, ok?” he yawns. “We’ll get some blood and then we’re going to Loki’s.”

_Yes. Will wake you._

“Goodnight, Venom.”

_Goodnight, soldat._

 

 

 

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

 

 

 

 

“You know exactly why, Agent Romanoff,” Director Fury says sternly. “We have a very delicate and complex understanding with the US government. Our agreement requires a certain degree of transparency, particularly when it concerns a high-value asset of this much international significance.”

“I understand that, Director Fury,” Tash replies, with rising heat. “But there are mitigating circumstances that—”

“Mitigating circumstances don’t stop the DoD from deciding we’re more of a threat than an ally,” he cuts her off sharply. “I’ve made my decision. Take Captain Allan to question the Winter Soldier.”

“But, sir, we have reason to believe—”

“But nothing, agent. Do it.”

“Yes, sir,” Tash says through her teeth. She turns to the blonde CIA man, who is standing awkwardly beside her, trying to appear as if he has somehow not overheard the conversation. “I guess you’re getting your way, Captain Allan.”

She wheels about, tossing her red hair as she strides briskly from the room, with the disconcerted Captain Allan trotting after her.

“Sorry about that,” he says, as they step into the elevator. “I didn’t realize your boss was gonna chew you out in front of me.”

“You’re not sorry, so save it,” she says curtly.

“Nah, I’m not,” he grins. “It was kinda fun seein’ you get called to heel like that, actually. Doesn’t seem like that happens much around here.”

“My rapport with my colleagues is none of your concern, Captain Allan. I hope getting a look at the Winter Soldier is worth all the trouble.”

“Thanks, I hope so, too.”

They descend to the basement level, one above the sub-basement security sector, where witness interviews, suspect interrogation, and detainee processing take place. She leads him down a corridor to a room marked “Interview A” and tells him to wait, then shuts the door behind him.

Back in the processing office, Tash switches on the monitor and calls up the closed-circuit feed from Interview A. Captain Allan is sitting back in his chair, with his arms crossed on his broad chest, looking infuriatingly nonchalant. After a few minutes, the door opens. He turns to see the visitor, and immediately sits up straighter in his chair.

The Winter Soldier. Large, sad, green eyes, tousled mop of dark hair, leather chest armor, and black combat trousers. Exactly as he’s been described (and captured in a few grainy photographs from far away and with a mask covering most of his face). Tash sees Allan blink at the metal arm, as the soldier drops into the chair on the other side of the table and glowers at him from beneath his furrowed brow.

“Well?” he says, in his low, husky voice. “What do you want?”

“Holy shit,” Allan says, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “I never thought I’d be meeting the Winter Soldier face to face. I’d say it’s an honor, but you know. You’re a mass-murderer and all that.”

The soldier stares blankly at him.

“So, if you, uh…if you don’t mind me asking, what’s with the robot arm?” Allan ventures. “I’ve never seen it, and the reports sure as shit woulda mentioned it if anyone else had.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” the soldier says drily. “I love talking about how Hydra cut off my arm and attached a weapon to my body. It felt great too, in case you were wondering. The nerve splicing and cauterizing. It was a day at the fucking beach.”

“Yeah. Uh. Sorry.”

“Do you actually have any questions or do you just enjoy wasting people’s time?”

“I do, I just gotta get my head in order, you know? I get things mixed up when I’m nervous. You were an assassin for Hydra, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“So you were acting on their orders, then. When you were killing all those innocent people in third world countries, and assassinating religious figures and political leaders who advocated for peace.”

“I don’t need a history lesson,” the soldier says flatly. “I know what I did.”

“Right. I just wasn’t sure, cause the Shield people tell me you were brainwashed. What was that, some kind of mental conditioning or something?”

“They shredded my brain inside my skull and made me into a mindless killing machine. Is that what you mean by mental conditioning?”

“I…I guess not. But if your brain was torn up, how’d they control you?”

“A collar.”

“Like a shock collar?”

“No. A piece of enchanted equipment. They relayed orders and information, and punished us when we misbehaved.”

“We?”

“The other supernaturals and me. We all had them.”

“So, you all had these, uh…these collars. But you’re a vamp. You’re strong. Why didn’t you just tear it off?”

“When my brain started to heal, I did. That’s how I escaped.”

“When was that?”

“1985.”

“But the metal arm, that’s new. You said Hydra did that.”

“They took me again, a few months ago.”

“Oh. I see. And they put that collar thing back on you?”

“No. A new one. It was designed to kill me if it was broken.”

“Holy shit. Then how’d you get away again?”

“The witch enchanted my arm for them, but she added one of her own to let her control it for a few seconds. She used it to break her collar and asked Steve—Captain Rogers—to help her. They brought me back to Hydra as a prisoner and destroyed the device that was controlling the collar.”

Captain Allan sits forward in his chair. “The device that was controlling it? What kind of device?”

“I don’t know. That’s not my area of expertise.”

“Got it,” Allan nods. “Well, it must be a relief to be out from under the Hydra thumb for good. Congratulations.”

“Anyone else could have told you all of this. Why did you want to talk to me?”

“Well, you’re the deadliest terrorist in history, not to mention a big-bad level vamp. The US government isn’t really inclined to take it on faith that you suddenly no longer represent a serious threat to international security.”

“And you think you can find out whether I am or not, just by talking to me.”

“Eh, I’m a pretty good judge of character,” Captain Allan says, scratching his chin. “But even I’m not good enough to tell that kind of thing about a man without meeting him. You know. The real him.”

“No, I don’t know. What are you talking about?”

“I mean, uh…you look the part and everything, and you sure done your homework. I’m impressed. But you’re not the Winter Soldier. So why don’t you cut the shit and tell me why your bosses sent you in here? What do you want from me?”

“Why the fuck do you think we want anything from you?”

“Gimme a break, ok?” Captain Allan says. “I been on both ends of this enough times to know when I’m the one being interrogated. That little show Fury and Romanoff put on was cute, but there’s no way they’d give me access to the Winter Soldier without a fucking act of congress.”

“Are you really qualified to judge what they would or wouldn’t do?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But it doesn’t matter, cause you’re not him.”

The soldier gazes at him for a moment, then a smile curls the corners of his lips. As it does, the illusion dissipates, revealing a more slender man, elegantly dressed, with black hair, ice-blue eyes, and fine, patrician features.

“Very clever, Captain,” Loki says, in his melodic British lilt. “But what made you so certain I was not the soldier? Unless…ah, you must know something about him that betrayed the illusion.”

“I—I, uh…that’s not the issue here,” Allan replies, his self-assured manner faltering. “I can’t tell you what you want to know unless you tell me what it is, so spit it out.”

“The Winter Soldier is a Shield asset. We protect and monitor him. You arrived and began asking questions about him, and suddenly, we can’t find him. We don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“What do you mean you can’t fucking find him?” Allen demands, in what appears to be genuine disbelief. “How the fuck do you lose an asset like that? Does Shield have any control over its people at all?”

“You seem upset, Captain,” Loki replies tranquilly. “Are you, perhaps, feeling cornered?”

“I’m upset because I’m sick of being fucking lied to, bloodsucker.”

“Lied to? Yes, that must be frustrating for an honest man. But tell me, what would an honest man be doing with these?”

From the pocket of his coat, he draws a handful of little black orbs and a few silver ones of the same size, and drops them onto the table.

Captain Allan looks at them, then back at him, stricken. “Where the fuck did you get those?”

“A routine scan detected residue from unauthorized spells cast in the Shield ICU,” Loki says, taking up a black orb and rolling it between his forefinger and thumb. “We had your room searched. I am not a master of illusion, merely a practitioner, but even I can recognize a single-use cloaking spell. And the silver ones, these are for incapacitation, I think.”

“I am required to use tools like that in my job,” Allan says, maintaining his gaze. “I am authorized to carry them.”

“Indeed. But you are not authorized to use them on Shield property. Particularly not where a Hydra prisoner is being treated. He had regained consciousness, but he is, I am sorry to say, comatose once again. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you.”

“No,” Allan says, crossing his arms.

“And naturally, you wouldn’t have had anything to do with our missing vampire asset, either.”

“No. I didn’t even fucking—I’ve had it with you fucking freaks,” he says, rising abruptly. “I’m done. We’re done, here.”

“Sit,” a voice snarls behind him, giving him a start.

He drops back into his chair almost involuntarily, and looks up to see Steve standing in the doorway.

“Fuck me, really?” he says, managing an ironic smirk. “You guys are gonna try the good-cop bad-cop now? I got news for you, Rogers, you’re not gonna please and thank you anything out of me your prissy goth buddy didn’t.”

“You are mistaken, Captain,” Loki says, with a venomous smile. “I am the good cop.”

Steve’s blue irises ignite and flare into bright, amber-gold flames. Before Allan has time to react, Steve has hauled him up by the collar of his black shirt and thrown him against the wall, knocking the wind out of him.

“What the fuck are you doing!” he gasps. “You can’t assault a federal agent!”

“I’m afraid you’re talking to the wolf now, Captain,” Loki says serenely. “He can’t be reasoned with when he’s like this.”

Steve holds him pinned with an arm across his chest and leans close, baring his fangs letting out a low, menacing growl.

“How the fuck—he’s so strong!” Allan pants, struggling ineffectually against the hold. “I can’t budge him.”

Loki cocks his head curiously to one side. “Why ever would you expect that you could? Steve is a wolf. You are but a mortal man.”

“Hunter!” Allan manages to choke out, as Steve’s impossibly strong arm crushes the breath from his lungs. “I’m a—demon hunter!”

Steve releases him instantly, letting him collapse onto the floor, clutching his chest and gulping down ragged breaths.

“We should’ve just done this before,” he says to Loki. “That was way easier than sending people across dimensions to ask about it.”

“Well,” Loki shrugs. “You know what they say about hindsight.”

“Get up,” Steve barks, giving Allan a nudge with his boot. “What have you done with Winter?”

“I swear, I don’t know anything about it,” Allen puffs, dragging himself to his feet. “I never seen him, never talked to him. I was here all night, in my quarters.”

Steve narrows his eyes, looking him up and down. “He doesn’t smell like lying. But he could be masking his scent.”

“I’m not lying,” Allan insists. “I’m looking for the Winter Soldier, too.”

“What the fuck do you want with him, hunter!” Steve snarls, bristling up again.

Allan jumps back a step and holds up his hands. “Whoa, Wolfie, calm down. It ain’t him I’m after. He’s got something Hydra stole from the US government. I have to recover it.”

“Something like what?”

“A weapon. They sent us to track it down and we followed the trail back to Hydra. When we got to the island, the base was obliterated and we got word you were the demolition crew. We came here to find out what happened to it.”

“Why the fuck would they send the spook squad to chase down a weapon?” Tash, who has just materialized beside Steve, asks.

“It’s not a usual kind of weapon,” Allan answers.

“What is it?” Steve asks.

“It’s classified as fuck, is what it is. But I can tell you it’s not exactly from around here. If you’ll help me find the soldier, I can get it from him and Shield and the DoD can stay friends. Everyone wins.”

“Keeping one more weapon out of the hands of the US government seems like the real win to me,” Steve says. “And you’re a fucking demon hunter. Why would you think we’d let you anywhere near the soldier, let alone help you find him?”

“This weapon isn’t like anything you’ve ever seen. It’s extremely dangerous to the user. If we don’t get it off him soon, it could kill him.”

“You’ve been lying since you walked into Shield,” Tash cuts in. “Why the fuck should we believe you now?”

“Sure, I could be lying, but are you willing to take that chance? With your vamp buddy’s life on the line?”

“I don’t trust him,” Steve says to Tash. “And whatever this weapon is that Winter has, I’m sure the US government can’t be trusted with it, either.”

“The spells he used to break into the ICU and do whatever he did to Rumlow definitely constitute a detention-worthy crime,” Tash shrugs. “I say we lock him up and let him think about what he’s done.”

“That’s up to you,” Allan says. “But even if you find the soldier, you won’t be able to get it from him before it kills him.”

“Alright, Captain Allan, here is my offer,” Tash says sweetly. “Either you start talking specifics right the fuck now, or you’re going to be Josef’s new cell mate. He’s a troll, not a demon. And he plays rough.”

“The weapon, it…does shit to the user’s mind. The vamp might not even be your friend anymore when you find him, and you won’t know it till it’s too late. If you take me with you, I can get it off him. You don’t know how to do it.”

“Then fucking tell us how, asshole,” Steve snaps, grabbing him by the collar again.

Allan shakes his head as best he can with Steve half choking him. “No. You want him, you gotta take me. Let me recover the weapon, or I’ll let him die.”

“You are playing with fire, Captain,” Loki warns.

“You wouldn’t do that,” Steve says. “You wouldn’t knowingly stand by and let it kill him.”

“Try me. I got a job to do and no reason to shed a tear over a vamp terrorist. He dies, I’ll still be able to find it.”

Steve holds him fast for a long moment, looking keenly into his eyes.

Allan looks right back, refusing to be daunted. “Clock’s ticking, Rogers. What’s it gonna be?”

 

 

 

 

 

A little while after sunset, when the warmth of the late spring day has given way to a crisp, cool evening, and the first stars are winking into the violet sky (or would be, if they weren’t utterly obliterated by the glare of the city’s light pollution) a man comes strolling down a bustling Manhattan street. This alone is no remarkable phenomenon—there are many men about, walking along the same street. The man himself, however, is remarkable.

Perhaps it is his extraordinary physical beauty that attracts notice. Or, perhaps, it is the preternatural grace of his movements. Or his air of easy entitlement, as passers-by automatically part to avoid obstructing his path. Whatever it is, attract notice he does. Young women, old women, even men, can’t help but steal a second or third glance as he crosses their eyeline, like a vision from some slightly better world.

“He must be an actor,” an elderly woman is heard to remark to her companion, as the man passes the bus shelter in which they are sitting.

“A tractor?” her companion, an equally elderly woman inquires, at a much higher volume. “He doesn’t look like a farmer to me.”

“Oh, for the love of—an actor! I said he must be an actor!” the first woman shouts. “Turn your hearing aid on, Rita!”

“You don’t have to shout, Esther, I’m not deaf,” Rita sniffs, adjusting her snow-white curls (and surreptitiously switching on her assistive device). “That boy couldn’t be an actor, anyhow. Look at all that long hair. Unless he was playing some kind of wild man.”

“He’d be one handsome wild man,” Esther says, gazing after the long-haired boy in question. “And look at that ass.”

“That ass is about a hundred years too young for you, you withered old hussy,” Rita clucks. “You’d break both hips just getting him saddled.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Esther agrees. “It’d be worth the ride, though.”

These last remarks produce a shocked glance from a younger woman who is standing in the bus shelter with them, at which both elderly ladies burst into hearty laughter. Away down the street, the object of their observations laughs as well, having overheard and thoroughly enjoyed the entire interchange.

**Why would human females past the age of reproduction wish to mate with you?**

“They don’t really,” Bucky says, still smiling. “They just like to look.”

**Humans are strange.**

“I think it’s cute. And kind of funny, since I’m more than three-hundred years older than them. Who knows, I may have fucked a couple of their grandmothers.”

**Gross.**

“I didn’t mean while they were grandmothers, Venom, I meant when they were younger.”

**Still gross. Human mating is gross.**

“Well, sorry about that,” Bucky laughs. “Steve and I have fucked a bunch of times since you’ve been hiding in me.”

**Not gross when you and Steve fuck.**

“Oh yeah? You like to watch?”

**Like to feel. Your brain makes good chemicals.**

“Got it. You’re not a perv, you just like getting high on the sex endorphins.”

**Yes. What is perv?**

“It was a joke. How do your kind mate?”

**Do not.**

“You don’t reproduce?”

**Do. Not by mating.**

“Uh…do I want to know how?”

**Have seed cells. Create young. Separate when mature.**

“You reproduce asexually.”

**Yes. Asexually.**

“Do your species not have biological gender, then?”

**No. Can choose male or female. Or neither.**

“Cool. You seem male to me. Are you?”

**Yes. Like males more. Females are confusing.**

“Yeah, but they’re soft and pretty and they smell really good.”

**Do not like soft.**

“I do. I like _not_ soft too, though.”

**Steve is not soft.**

“No, there’s nothing soft on Steve, that’s for sure.”

**You are also not soft.**

“I’m an old-ass demon,” Bucky shrugs. “I’m pretty much made of rocks and bitterness at this point.”

**You are not old. Also not demon. Also not made of rocks.**

“Not a real demon, but vampires are all part demon. Tash calls us lesser hybrids.”

**Like Tash. She is not soft.**

“That’s cause she’s not human, either.”

**Half-demon. Beautiful. Much scarier than us and Steve.**

“She’s definitely all those things. I don’t know if she’s actually stronger than Steve, though. He’s got the whole demigod-wolf thing going.”

**Son of Thor.**

“Well, he’s not really Thor’s son, but I guess he did kind of make him.”

**Thor is strong. A power. Do not wish to be enemy of Thor.**

“You’d better play nice with Steve, then. Those two were like, instant BFFs the minute they met.”

**What is BFFs?**

“Best friends forever. You never heard that?”

**No.**

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, V. It’s the age of abbreviation.”

**Like V. You may call me that.**

“V it is. You see anyone who looks good?”

**All look like food.**

“Ok, then I’m taking that one.”

**Which.**

“Over there. The blonde guy sitting on the bench with his face in his phone.”

**Yes. Like blonde guys.**

“I guess we both have a type.”

Bucky strolls over to the bench and sits down next to the tall, athletic-looking blonde. The young man continues tapping busily at his phone’s screen, and doesn’t appear to notice him, which is standard practice when sharing a park bench with a stranger. But this will be anything but a standard interaction.

“Hello, Chris,” Bucky says softly.

The young man looks up at him with a start. “Are you talking to me?”

“I am,” Bucky smiles. “I said hello.”

“Uh. Hi. Sorry, do I know you?”

“No. But that doesn’t really matter, does it.”

“I…I don’t…understand,” Chris the blonde park-goer says, blinking heavily as Bucky’s thrall washes over him.

Bucky tilts his head to one side, biting his bottom lip. Chris stares dazedly at those soft, pouting lips, and involuntarily licks his own. Then his cheeks flush pink and he seems to shake himself.

“It’s…really warm out,” he says, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. “Was it this warm a minute ago?”

“Let me cool you off. Come here.”

Chris hesitates, resisting the thrall as best he can, then he looks up into the long-lashed green eyes of the hunter, and the battle is lost. He slides his phone into his jeans pocket and scoots over, till his thigh just rests against Bucky’s.

“Good boy,” Bucky purrs, tracing an ice-cold finger down the back of his neck. “That feels good, doesn’t it.”

“So good,” the thoroughly muddled Chris breathes, as his eyelids droop shut. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Closer.”

Chris tips forward with a sigh, letting his head fall onto Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky cards his fingers through his short-cropped blonde hair, then presses his lips to his ear.

“Chris, you are going to delete Brianne’s contact from your phone,” he murmurs. “You are going to ignore her messages, and never speak to her again.”

“Ok,” Chris mumbles into Bucky’s chest.

“You haven’t done anything to hurt Rachel yet, and you’re not going to start now. You’ll be a father soon, and you’re going to be a good one. Don’t be scared. Be strong. Your family will make you happy. Screwing around with bipolar twenty-year-olds from the gym will not.”

“Ok,” Chris repeats thickly.

“V, no fucking venom this time, I mean it.”

**Already promised no venom. Not stupid.**

Chris gasps, then moans softly as Bucky’s fangs pierce his flesh, sliding like icy needles into the artery. There are other people around, jogging and walking a few meters away, but in the evening dimness, all they will see is two men embracing. Anyone who happens to wander close enough to see what’s really happening will be in range of Bucky’s powerful thrall, and won’t be aware that they saw anything out of the ordinary.

Chris clutches Bucky’s black t-shirt with both hands as his body begins to quake and tremble. His spine goes suddenly rigid, hips twitching as he comes hard, soaking the inside of his briefs, then he slumps forward, instantly and thoroughly unconscious. Bucky supports him in his strong arms and lowers him gently onto the bench, to sleep off the bite until the cops show up and tell him to get lost.

**Like human blood. Good. Warm.**

“Me too,” Bucky pants, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Steve’s is—much better, though.”

**Wolf blood is gross. Makes us sick.**

“It only makes you sick, you big baby. It makes me feel great.”

**You are the baby! I am cool!**

“Yeah, you’re a cool baby,” Bucky smirks, as he walks away into the shadows beneath the trees. “Hold onto your hat. We’re flying to Loki’s.”

**Do not have hat.**

“Ok, well, we’re definitely getting you a hat.”

**No! No hat! Will look stupid!**

“Maybe a fedora. Or a sombrero.”

**Changed mind. Do not like you.**

“Yeah, you do. You ready?”

**Ready.**

Bucky whirls away in a stream of black vapor, and within a few minutes, they have materialized at Loki’s building. The uniformed doorman, now familiar with Mr. Winter’s comings and goings, nods his greeting as Bucky types in the code for the private elevator.

**No one here.**

“They’re probably at Shield or out looking for me,” Bucky says, glancing around Loki’s spacious living room. “I guess we’ll have to wait for someone to get back.”

**Cat wants things.**

“Hey, Moo-moo,” Bucky coos, as he bends down to pet Arabella, who has come slinking in and is coiling herself flirtatiously about his ankles. “Did everyone run off and leave you by yourself?”

“Mwow,” Arabella mourns.

“That was very rude of them,” he says, as she hops onto the counter. “They should be more considerate of your feelings.”

“Bweh,” Arabella says tartly, switching her tail.

“There’s no need for that kind of language, miss,” Bucky scolds. “I’m sure they didn’t know you were hungry when they left.”

“Muuu?” Arabella asks.

“Yeah, I’ll get you some. You’re clearly starving right to death.”

Arabella seats herself on her round haunches and waits politely, tail curled around her feet, as Bucky retrieves a saucer from the cabinet and opens a pouch marked ‘Crab and Lobster in Savory Sauce.’ He dumps the mixture of white meat chunks and broth onto the plate and sets it before Arabella, who digs into her meal with hearty enthusiasm.

“Ugh, your food stinks, Moo-moo,” he grimaces. “How can you eat this stuff?”

“Mrrf,” Arabella warbles, through a sizeable morsel of what appears to be the lobster element of the dish.

**Cat has many opinions.**

“Yes, she does,” Bucky says, scratching the top of her head. “She’s a strong, independent lady and she demands to be heard.”

He pauses and watches, fascinated, as oil-black tendrils curl out from somewhere behind his head and snake toward the cat, cautiously stroking her fluffy, white fur.

**Like cats. Predators, like us.**

“Yep. They know it, too.”

**This one is lazy. Has become fat.**

“She’s not fat, she’s Rubenesque! And she’s beautiful! Aren’t you, Moo-moo.”

“Myah,” Arabella confirms, lustily licking her chops.

“See?” Bucky says, as he switches on the espresso machine. “She sure told you.”

**Cat is vibrating now. What is wrong with it?**

“She’s purring. That means she likes you, keep petting her.”

Venom continues to pet and prod Arabella as Bucky draws himself shots of espresso and pours them over steaming water in a mug. He has just begun to sip at it, when all of Venom’s black tendrils retract abruptly.

**Someone is coming…Loki.**

“By himself?”

**Yes.**

About a minute passes, then the elevator hums up and the doors slide open. Loki steps out, then stops short, staring at Bucky in surprise.

“Hey Loki,” Bucky says. “I let myself in. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Winter, where in god’s name have you been!” Loki demands. “We’ve been scouring the city for you for the past twenty-four hours. Steve is out of his mind with worry.”

“Sorry. Uh…a thing came up.”

“A thing came up?” Loki says, crossing his arms indignantly. “I see you haven’t changed so much, after all. Why are you not answering your phone?”

“I dropped it.”

“You dropped it?”

“Yeah, off a roof. Where’s Steve?”

“He’s out searching for you. Fair warning, he has that Captain Allan from the CIA with him. Apparently he wants to find you, as well.”

“What would Allan want with me?”

“He is under the impression that you have somehow got hold of a weapon that was stolen from the US government. He wants it back.”

**Not weapon! Do not belong to US government!**

“Ok, so he’s insane. Good to know. Why the fuck would Steve be helping him?”

“Allan claims that this weapon is dangerous to the possessor, and says it could kill you.”

“And Steve believes him?”

“I don’t think he does believe his story entirely, but you’d gone missing and the potential threat to your life left him without much choice in the matter.”

“God damn it,” Bucky growls. “I should’ve found a phone and called him. I do not need some CIA prick nosing around in my business.”

Loki draws out his gold case and lights a black cigarette, which he hands to Bucky (out of old accustomed habit), then lights another for himself.

“Allan mentioned something else about the weapon,” he says. “He said that it affects the mind of the possessor. He seemed to think you would not be inclined to surrender it willingly. If you had it, that is.”

Bucky draws on his cigarette and exhales a plume of smoke. “Well, I don’t, so it’s a moot point.”

“Do you know what is strange,” Loki says, eyeing him through the pale-blue cloud. “Steve does believe that part is true. That you have this weapon.”

“I’d know if I had some kind of weapon, Loki,” Bucky says irritably. “I’m not going to—”

**Tell him.**

What the fuck do you mean, tell him? Why?

**He will help.**

I thought you didn’t trust him.

**He lies for small things. Personal gain.**

He lies for big things, too, V. He’d turn us over to them in a heartbeat.

**No. Loves you. Wants to be trusted. Tell him you trust him. Ask him to help. He will not betray us to CIA man.**

“Winter,” Loki says. “Are you alright?”

“Hm? Yeah. I’m fine. I’m just trying to think.”

“You stopped talking mid-sentence. What’s wrong?”

“Loki, listen…I need something from you,” Bucky says. “I know you don’t owe me anything, but you’re the only person I can trust. I need your help.”

“What do you mean?” Loki frowns. “You’ve never trusted me. You called me a viper.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky sighs. “I said that because I was angry at myself, Loki. Look, I know I told you I wouldn’t have turned you if I knew, but I would have.”

Loki blinks up at him. “You…would have?”

“Of fucking course I would have! I just wanted to believe I wouldn’t have. The truth is, I needed you a lot more than you needed me.”

“You did not need me, Winter, you left me all the time. For months. Years.”

“I know I did. I’m sorry. It’s no excuse, but you deserve to know…I didn’t leave because I was angry at you. It was because all I could see when I looked at you was the monster I was, and the monster I made you into, because I was weak and selfish enough to give you this curse and let you suffer with me. Sometimes that was too much for me to take anymore, so I ran. I came back because I—because I needed you. Without you, I’d have fallen apart a long time ago.”

“That can’t be true,” Loki says, turning away.

Bucky takes him by his shoulders and forces him to turn back and face him.

“It is true,” he says earnestly, holding Loki’s ice-blue eyes in his gaze. “I nearly lost my mind a thousand times, but you never stopped picking up the pieces. I was a fucking asshole to you, but no matter how bad I’d hurt you, or what awful shit I said when I left, you were always there when I came crawling home. You were always there to put me back together. So yeah, I trust you. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone. Except Steve, obviously.”

Loki stares at him for a long moment, then reaches up and brushes a tear from his beautiful face.

“You look ridiculous when you cry,” he says, attempting to conceal the tremor in his voice. “Your tears are pink.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky says. “You better not fucking tell anyone about this, though. I’ll find some Christians to burn you.”

“Lucky for me, they don’t do that anymore,” Loki says, prying himself free and going to sit in his armchair. “But we’ve gone far afield of our topic. You said you wanted my help.”

“Yeah, I do. What do you think of the CIA guy, Allan? You get a read on him?”

“I did. I posed as you and questioned him. He is uneducated and volatile, but clever and no coward. He must be under severe pressure from his superiors to retrieve the thing, though, because he seems to me to be somewhat desperate. Like a man who is cornered and resorting to extremes. He threatened your life to get what he wanted from Steve, which is a dangerous card to play.”

“My life,” Bucky snorts. “What the fuck could he do to me?”

“Well, it turns out he is a demon hunter, after all. So, whatever that would entail,” Loki says, gesturing vaguely with his cigarette. “But he did not threaten to do anything to you. He threatened to do nothing. He told Steve that he can take the weapon from you, but the rest of us cannot. He said he would let it kill you unless Steve allowed him to recover it.”

“And Steve didn’t rip out his throat?”

“He was angry, but he exercised admirable restraint, for a wolf.”

“Ok, so…here’s the deal,” Bucky says, taking a deep breath. “I do have the thing Allan is looking for, but he’s not a weapon. I can’t let the CIA get their hands on him.”

“Him?”

“Yeah, him. He’s a living thing.”

“I am confused, Winter. How can you have it if it is a living thing?”

“He’s inside me.”

“He is…inside you?” Loki says, raising his eyebrows.

“I know how it sounds, but it’ll make sense later. The point is, I promised I’d help him and I won’t betray him. I won’t let him be taken back to whatever cage the CIA is going to put him in and made into a slave. I think I know how to keep Allan off the scent long enough to get him safely away, but I’ll need your help.”

“This sounds rather underhanded.”

“Definitely.”

“And dangerous.”

“Probably.”

“Very well, then. Count me in.”

“Bwah!” Arabella proclaims, as she hops up into Loki’s lap.

“And Arabella,” Loki says. “Count her in, too.” 

 

 

 

 

 


	34. Chapter 34

 

 

 

 

“Evening, Captain Rogers,” an agent (some kind of part-elf, from the look of her) says, as Steve enters the ops sector.

“Hi there,” Steve replies cheerfully, despite his current mood. “I sent Captain Allan down for some gear a little while ago. Did he find everything ok?”

“Yes, sir,” she nods. “I believe he’s in the locker room changing right now.”

Steve heads down the hall and swings open the door marked ‘Men’s Locker’. Allan is standing beside a bench with his back to the door, pulling a black t-shirt on over his head. Steve pauses, blinking, then catches himself and looks away quickly, suddenly feeling as if he’s stumbled upon something personal, to which he has no right to be privy.

The man’s back is a map of scars. The ugly lacework of a burn on his left side, starburst puncture wounds along his spine, and various other lacerations whose origins Steve can only guess at. The most prominent among them are three long, deep slashes, beginning below his right shoulder blade and curving over the shoulder. They are close together and run alongside each other in parallel, as if carved into his hide by the claws of a large predator.

“Werewolf,” Allan says, without turning around.

“Excuse me?”

“The scars you were looking at. They’re from a werewolf.” He picks up a a black Kevlar vest and fastens it on over the t-shirt. “Big, mean motherfucker. Tracked him across three states. Finally ran him down in Wyoming.”

“Oh,” Steve says awkwardly. “Did you kill him?”

“Yep. Put up a hell of a fight, though. Hence the scars.”

“What about his pack?”

“Lone wolf.”

Steve’s lip curls with revulsion at the term. Most wolves are pretty much regular people in their human forms, and since they can’t control the transformation, a pack is a necessary support structure for helping them cope. Also, having your pack around to keep you under control is the best way to mitigate any damage you might do to your friends and neighbors when under the influence of your wolf form.

Lone wolves, however—unlike Steve, who lost his pack—are wolves who are too psychotic or sadistic to be accepted into a pack in the first place. They isolate themselves intentionally and they prey upon the weak. Steve detests lone wolves. He has killed a few himself, over the years.

“I’m glad you put him down, then,” he says. “Those scars are old, though. That must’ve been a long time ago.”

“I was eighteen,” Allan says. “Young and green, still learning to hunt. I got a lot of kills under my belt since then. Wolf like him wouldn’t stand a chance against me, now.”

“You’ve killed a lot of supernaturals?”

“Yep. I used to hunt more, but it’s tapered off over the years. Just getting wind I’m coming is usually enough to send ‘em running for the hills these days. Most demon hybrids are opportunity predators. They don’t like a fair fight.”

“That’s true,” Steve admits. “Except me. Though, I don’t really know what a fair fight would even look like for me anymore.”

Allan casts a sidelong glance at him as he tightens the strap on his shoulder holster. “You’re different. Not like other wolves.”

“I’m not a demon hybrid, if that’s what you mean. I’m still a wolf.”

“You’re just bigger and badder than the other ones, is that it?”

“Something like that,” Steve says uneasily, suddenly aware that he’s been letting himself get too talkative with this man who has threatened Bucky’s life.

Allan’s casual, self-assured manner and Bronx accent are familiar and comfortable to Steve, who was raised working-class in New York, and they make it easy for him to fall into friendly conversation with the man. When he’s not being a total asshole, that is.

“You clammed up all the sudden. What’s wrong?” Allan asks.

“Hm? Oh, nothing,” Steve says. “Where are your men?”

Allan squints at him, as if confused by the question. “My men?”

“Your team. Aren’t they coming with us?”

“Oh, right. My team,” Allan says, with an ironic laugh. “Fuck no, they’re not coming. They’ve all got nice, easy assignments writing up reports here at HQ.”

“I don’t understand,” Steve frowns. “Why wouldn’t you want your men backing you up?”

“They’re not really my men, Captain Rogers,” Allan says, “I’m their boss and all, but I just joined the unit six months ago. These kids trained and served under Captain Price and, uh…I didn’t exactly agree with her way of doing things.”

“What was her way of doing things?”

“Shoot first, ask questions later. Or shoot enough so you don’t have to ask any questions. I’m not letting the guys she trained anywhere near this unless I absolutely have to.”

“You didn’t approve of Captain Price because her tactics were too aggressive?” Steve asks doubtfully. “From what I’ve seen of you, that doesn’t make much sense.”

“I didn’t approve of Captain Price for a lot of reasons,” Allan says, eyeing him cagily. “With all due respect, I don’t really give a shit if it makes sense to you or not. We ready to go?”

“Yeah, looks like we’re ready,” Steve mutters, looking after him as he walks briskly out the door.

Outside Shield HQ, they climb into the large, black SUV that is waiting for them, and Steve directs the vehicle’s navigation system to take them to the Four Seasons in Tribeca. He glances at Allan, expecting him to question the destination, but he doesn’t appear to have noticed, or to have any interest in talking to Steve at all. He simply sits silent, gazing out the window as the city flickers by.

Steve turns his eyes back to the road. He is growing increasingly troubled by the apparent contradictions in Captain Allan. His fearlessness around supernatural creatures should make sense, given his status as a Hunter, but Tash had described Hunters as thinking in black and white terms, and this man’s mind seems to be anything but.

When they met, he’d talked to Steve like he was someone he respected, and his scent signals when he’d met the vampire agents the other night had been easy and friendly, and not at all hostile, as Steve would have expected. This suggests that his lack of fear doesn’t originate in having the power to kill them. It also suggests that his religious indoctrination failed to instill in him the standard Catholic loathing of Satan and all his evils.

But then there was the way he’d casually suggested they put Josef out of his misery, and kept referring to supernaturals in general as freaks. He’d also reduced Bucky’s life to a bargaining chip, calling him a vamp terrorist over whose death he wouldn’t be inclined to shed a tear.

A lot of things about this man aren’t adding up, and his scent signals are no help. At the moment, they are chaotic and incomprehensible, varying wildly between excitement, blank indifference, anger, anxiety, and many others so quickly, Steve can barely keep up. So, either he’s a madman, or he’s using some kind of masking.

It is most likely the latter, but his method must be far superior to Loki’s, since this is a multitude of scents cascading in real time, whereas Loki had only used the one. Steve resists the temptation to ask him about it and concentrates on driving. When his phone vibrates with a call from Wanda, he is relieved just to have a break from the uncomfortable silence, and puts it through to the vehicle’s speaker system.

“Hey, Wanda. What’s up, you have something?”

“Steve, I have found him,” Wanda’s voice says urgently through the speakers. “I have found Winter.”

“Thank fuck. How’d you find him? Where is he?”

“I do not know how,” she says. “He was nowhere and then a few minutes ago, he simply appeared. He is at the John F. Kennedy international airport.”

“The airport?” Steve frowns. “What would he be doing there? He’s a vampire, he can’t just hop on a commercial flight.”

“I only know that is where he is. You must get to him quickly, Steve.”

“We’re on our way,” Steve says, glancing at Allan, who is already on his own phone. “Dispatch a team to meet us there. We don’t know what could be waiting for us. And could you let Thor know what’s going on and ask him to sit tight for me?”

“Of course,” Wanda says. “Be careful, and call me as soon as you can, please. I have been so worried for him.”

“I will. Thank you, Wanda.”

“Get on the phone with JFK,” Allan is saying to whoever he has called. “Let ‘em know we’ve got a developing situation and agents incoming. I want all outbound flights grounded till further notice. We’re the fucking CIA, Ross, make it happen. Get a description of the asset to TSA, too. They are to report if they get a visual on him, but they are not to engage under any circumstances. Make that very clear. Under no circumstances are they to approach or attempt to engage. Good. Call me when it’s done.”

“You can do that?” Steve asks, as Allan stows his phone. “You can just call an airport and stop all the planes from taking off?”

“One of the perks of bein’ a government spook,” Allan shrugs. “Local authorities have to cooperate with me.”

“Sounds…efficient,” Steve says stiffly.

Allan turns back to his window, and they resume their tense silence till his phone chirps again.

“Yeah,” he says. “An hour? What the fuck do they think this is? Oh, I’m sure they are. I guess it’ll have to be. Tell ‘em thanks for nothing.”

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks.

“JFK’s idea of cooperating is faking a power outage to explain why the flights are grounded. They say they can delay takeoffs for an hour. That’s all they’ll give us.”

“It’ll be enough. It won’t take me more than a minute to find him.”

“And the weapon could be long gone by then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Allan says, shaking his head. “Let’s just get there.”

Steve parks the vehicle at the curb in the arrivals zone of the terminal, where a man in a navy blazer and khaki pants comes trotting up to greet them. He shakes their hands and introduces himself as the chief of security.

“I’ve got good news and bad news, sir,” he says to Allan, as they walk briskly through the sliding doors. “We’re pretty sure we found your guy, but it looks like he’s dead.”

“Pretty sure?” Allan asks.

“He matches the description, sir. With the, uh…metal arm and all that.”

“Outstanding,” Allan says irritably. “And why were any of your people close enough to determine whether he’s alive or not?”

“One of the janitorial staff found him on a men’s room floor before we got the alert out,” the security chief explains apologetically. “He radioed for help. Said the guy was cold, not breathing. Your people gave strict orders not to go near him no matter what, so we shut the restroom down and posted up outside to wait for you.”

“We’ll need to question the janitor. Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.” Steve pushes the restroom door open and vanishes inside, but Allan stops the security chief. “You and your men better stay out. In case there’s a bomb on him or something.”

“Yes, sir,” the man nods, looking rather relieved not to be included.

In the men’s room, Allan sees the Winter Soldier—the real one this time—lying facedown in the middle of the floor, apparently unconscious. Steve is already kneeling beside him, turning him over.

“Winter,” he says, shaking him gently. “Come on, Winter, wake up.”

The soldier’s eyes blink open and he lies there, looking dazedly up at the ceiling. “So this is what it feels like.”

“What what feels like?” Steve asks.

“Waking up on a bathroom floor with no idea how I got here,” the soldier grins. “Maybe I should stop doing this to people.”

“How are you, are you hurt?” Steve asks, as he helps him to his feet.

“I don’t think so. Where the fuck are we?”

Before Steve can answer, Captain Allan pushes forward and grabs the soldier by his shirt collar, looking sharply into his face.

“You don’t have it,” he says, becoming agitated. “You don’t fucking have it. Where is it?”

“Steve,” Bucky says calmly. “Who is this human and why is it touching me?”

“Get the fuck off him,” Steve growls, pulling Allan back and placing himself physically between them. “We’re at JFK, Buck. You don’t remember coming here?”

“No. Why the fuck would I want to go to an airport, Steve? It’s not like I can hop on a commercial flight.”

“That’s exactly what I told Wanda when—”

“Where’s the fucking weapon, vamp?” Allan interrupts, from behind Steve. “What did you do with it?”

“Steve, the human is still here and it’s talking to me again,” Bucky says. “What does it want?”

“This is one of the CIA pricks. He told us you had a weapon the government is looking for and that it could kill you if we didn’t let him come get it from you.”

“It could have, and now it might kill someone else,” Allan persists. “Where is it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bucky says icily, fixing the man with his green eyes.

“Like fuck you don’t,” Allan retorts, undaunted. “You had it for a while, you must’ve known you did.”

“How can you tell he doesn’t have it just by looking at him?” Steve asks. “And how would he have known he had it?”

“It makes itself known,” Allan says, still looking at Bucky. “No way you gave it to someone else. Not willingly. Tell me what you did with it.”

“I didn’t do anything with it,” Bucky replies, with an indifferent shrug. “It must’ve left me on its own. That’s probably why I’m at the airport, come to think of it. It probably wanted to get out of New York and away from you assholes as quickly as possible.”

Allan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus fucking Christ, it’s been talking to you. I fucking knew it. What did it say?”

“What the fuck do you mean talking to him?” Steve demands, then turns back to Bucky. “And what do you mean left you on its own? What is this thing?”

“Oh, the human didn’t tell you?” Bucky says. “This thing he wants so badly isn’t a weapon at all. It’s a living creature. A sentient being. He and his CIA pals want to take it and lock it up in a cage. I’m glad it got away.”

“See? I told you the thing fucks with people’s minds,” Allan says to Steve, gesturing at Bucky. “It’s been filling his head with all kinds of shit. It probably talked him into bringing it here so it could hitch a ride on some oblivious civilian.”

“A ride?” Steve asks, cocking his head curiously.

“It’s a parasite. Hides in people’s bodies. And your bloodsucker pal brought it to an international fucking airport, for Christ’s sake. Thanks to him, it could be anywhere now.”

“I guess it could be,” Steve says. “And you know what? That doesn’t really strike me as our problem. You have seen for yourself that Winter doesn’t have it. Our business is concluded.”

“Wait a goddamned minute. You know this dangerous as fuck thing is out there posing a threat to innocent humans, and that’s your answer? It’s not your fucking problem?”

Steve’s jaw sets stubbornly. “Yes, that’s my answer. Finding it is your job, not mine. If you’ve got a problem with that, take it up with Director Fury.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Allan says, throwing his hands up in disbelief.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound like he’s kidding. Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you threatened his mate’s life to get what you wanted.”

“You really should have,” Steve agrees. “Goodbye, Captain Allan. Good luck.”

With that, he takes Bucky’s hand and leads him out of the restroom, leaving the exasperated CIA agent hastily dialing his own agency to call for urgent backup.

“Do you think he needs a ride?” Bucky asks offhandedly, as they stroll past the airport security personnel, who do not observe them doing so, thanks to his thrall.

“I don’t think he’s done for the night,” Steve says. “If he wants to go back to Shield and complain to Fury about me later, he can take a cab.”

Outside the terminal, a fleet of black Shield SUVs have just parked, and a swarm of uniformed agents are climbing out.

“Winter’s clean and uninjured. I’m taking him home,” Steve says to the lead agent. “Captain Allan is in the men’s room by gate D-three. He’s pretty grouchy about losing his toy, though, so watch out. Oh hey, can we get someone to drive us? We’re going to Brooklyn and my vehicle needs to go back to Shield.”

“Sure thing, Captain Rogers,” the woman says, waving for her team to follow her. “Agent Franklin will be happy to take you wherever you want to go.”

“Agent Franklin, could you drop us in Brooklyn, please?” Steve asks, as they climb into the back seat of the SUV. “We need to go home before we report in.”

“Yes, sir,” the accommodating agent replies.

Once they are seated, Steve takes Bucky’s hand and presses his lips to it, then hooks an arm around him and holds him tightly, as if afraid he’ll suddenly slip away again.

“Fuck me, I missed you,” Bucky sighs, looking up into his handsome face. “Were you always this hot?”

“It’s been like, twenty-four hours, Buck,” Steve smirks. “And yes, I was.”

Bucky narrows his eyes suspiciously. “I swear something’s different. You’ve gotten sexier since I saw you last.”

“Well, maybe. I am pretty sexy when I’m exhausted and worried out of my mind.”

“You are. I really have to stop getting abducted, though. It’s seriously cutting into our fucking time.”

“Is that all you think about? Sex?” Steve asks, feigning shock. “What happened to the sweet, innocent man I fell in love with?”

“Innocent, my ass,” Bucky snorts. “You fell in love with a vampire whore. You knew what you were getting into.”

“I know what I’m going to be getting into when we get home.”

“What if I can’t wait that long?” Bucky purrs, sliding a hand up his thigh.

“So fucking impatient,” Steve laughs. “We’ll be there in like, twenty minutes.”

“I know, Steve! Twenty whole minutes! Maybe even more! I could die.”

“Uh, guys?” Agent Franklin calls back from the driver’s seat. “This isn’t a limo. I can both see and hear you.”

“Sorry, Agent Franklin,” Steve says cheerfully. “We’ll be good.”

“Yeah, sorry Agent Franklin,” Bucky mutters, falling back against the seat to pout, which makes Steve laugh again and pull him in for a kiss.

“So, this creature or whatever it is, it made you take it to the airport?”

“Uh. Not exactly,” Bucky says noncommittally.

“What do you mean?” Steve frowns.

“I’ll explain everything, Steve, but not right now. Can you trust me and wait till we get home?”

“Ok, Buck. I trust you,” Steve says, squeezing his hand. “But you promise you’re really ok?”

“I really am. I promise.”

“That’s all that matters to me,” Steve smiles. “But Shield will probably want to know what the fuck happened. We’ve had Wanda and Thor and the wolves and everyone basically tearing the city apart looking for you.”

“I’ll give them a full report, but you can’t call in the National Guard every time I don’t answer my phone. I’m a big boy and I can take care of myself. What? What’s that look for?”

“It’s just…you’re not that big.”

“I’m more than four-hundred years old.”

“Yeah, but you’re little to me,” Steve grins.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “We’re exactly the same size, Steve.”

“Nope, sorry Buck. I’m taller than you.”

“What? No you’re not,” Bucky insists. “We’re the same height.”

“Wrong,” Steve maintains. “I’m at least two inches taller.”

“You are not.”

“I am.”

“He is, sir,” Agent Franklin assists, from the driver’s seat.

“God damn it,” Bucky grumbles. “I always used to be the tallest person I know.”

“You’re usually the tallest person you know, too? Huh. Weird.”

“It’s not that weird. Do you have any idea how tall six-foot-one was in the 1630s? I was huge.”

“Oh, that makes sense. Also you just proved my point. I’m six-three.”

“Ugh. Fine. And you’re not the tallest person you know, anyway. Thor’s gotta be at least six-five.”

“Thor’s a god, Buck. He’s taller than me and I’m taller than everyone else,” Steve says, then he frowns. “Except that CIA prick, Allan. We’re the same height.”

“He is as tall as you, isn’t he,” Bucky muses, biting his bottom lip. “Just as blonde, too.”

“Yeah, well keep your fangs in your mouth,” Steve says grumpily. “He’s a demon hunter. And an asshole.”

“That’s too bad. He’s hot.”

“Hot? How dare you!” Steve gasps. “You’re my mate and I won’t have you noticing other men.”

“I still have eyes, you dumb wolf,” Bucky laughs. “Besides, you notice other men, too. I’ve seen you looking at Loki.”

“I do not _look_ at Loki,” Steve says, all injured innocence, at which Bucky arches an eyebrow. “I mean…ok, maybe a little. But it’s not the same.”

“Oh yeah? How is it not the same?”

“It’s not the same because you are mine and I own you,” Steve explains. “Eyes included. What about that is so hard to underst—ow! I was joking! No hitting! And no summoning knives!”

“I’m not summoning a knife, I was trying to take your tennis ball away.”

“You’re out of control,” Steve says, catching his hands and kissing them both. “And I don’t have it with me, anyway. It’s at Loki’s.”

“What? Why the hell did you leave it there?”

“I wouldn’t have, but Arabella was sleeping all curled up around it and it was so sweet, I just couldn’t take it from her.”

“You are such a fucking pushover,” Bucky sighs. “If she was a puppy, you’d be absolutely done for.”

“Aw, a puppy! We should—”

“No.”

“But, Buck, what if—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Boo. You’re mean.”

“I know. Now shut up and kiss me again.”

In the designated twenty minutes or so, they arrive at Bucky’s building. After hastily thanking Agent Franklin, who does not appear overly sorry to be rid of them, Bucky and Steve head inside. They are barely able to get in the door before physically assailing one another, kissing and groping like intoxicated teenagers as they stumble up the stairs to the apartment.

Steve manages to dig out his keys, but he has some trouble getting the correct one into the lock with Bucky’s hand down his pants. At last, the mechanism cooperates and the door opens. Steve lifts Bucky off his feet, kicking the door shut behind them, then carries him down the hall and they fall into bed.

“I figured it out,” Bucky says breathlessly, passing a hand over Steve’s jaw. “You’ve got stubble.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Steve says, as he hops up to strip out of his combat gear. “I didn’t have time to shave again today.”

“What do you mean, again?”

“I have to shave twice a day or I have half a beard by bedtime,” he explains, as he undoes his fly. “It’s super embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Bucky laughs. “You have no idea how sexy you are all scruffy, do you.”

“Well, if you really think that, maybe I’ll take a break from the razor. Let you see me looking like a real wolf.”

“You’d fucking better,” Bucky says, watching Steve climb back into bed.

He removes his shirt and tosses it away while Steve peels off his grey jeans and black underwear, then he pulls him down on top of him. Steve covers Bucky’s mouth with his, stroking their cocks together as their tongues caress and roll over each other. The fiery heat of Steve’s naked skin pressed against him makes goosebumps prickle up all over his chest and arms.

“Christ, I want you so bad,” he says. “Hurry up and fuck me, already.”

“You want a drink first?” Steve asks, still pumping his hand up and down their shafts. “Your eyes are glowing.”

“Give it to me while you—ah! while you fuck me. I want to feel that big, hot dick in me while I swallow your blood.”

“Ok, then,” Steve grins. He pushes himself up onto his knees, and his eyes flare up into amber-gold flames. “On your face, bitch.”

Bucky crosses his arms defiantly, the soft glow in his green eyes intensifying. “You want me on my face, put me there yourself.”

Steve bares his fangs and runs his tongue over their sharp points. The moonlight streaming in the windows shimmers silver in his golden-blonde hair and white on his hard, muscular torso, making the curly hair on his chest and abdomen look thicker and darker.

Bucky’s own fangs lengthen in his mouth and begin to ache. Keeping his eyes locked on Steve’s, he lets his knees fall apart, slowly palming over his hard cock.

Steve makes a low sound in his throat, halfway between a hum of approval and a menacing growl, but he doesn’t move yet. Chills race up Bucky’s spine and his cock throbs with anticipation. One more little push is all he needs.

He licks his pouting lips and smiles tauntingly. “Go ahead, wolf. Put me on my belly and fuck me like a bitch. If you think you can.”

With a ferocious snarl, the wolf is on him, yanking him up and flipping him over faster than he can think. Steve holds him firmly by the back of his neck and pushes his face into the mattress as he leans over and takes a black bottle from the nightstand drawer. Kneeling behind him, he pushes his legs apart with his knees, then releases his neck and catches his wrists, pinning them to the small of his back with one hand.

Bucky’s exposed hole twitches as a stream of cold lube drizzles over it. Still holding his wrists fast, Steve slots his cock into the cleft of Bucky’s ass and slides it up and down in the slick of lube, tormenting him nearly out of his senses. Bucky lets out a plaintive moan and rocks his hips, desperately trying to increase the friction and pressure.

“You want my cock, bitch?” Steve growls. “Beg me.”

“Please, I—I want it,” Bucky pants. “Give it to me.”

He arches his back and tilts his ass further upward, presenting himself to his mate. His body is trembling to feel Steve inside him. To be held down and penetrated, completely dominated by him.

“Please, please fuck me. Fuck—”

His words break off in a strangled cry as Steve’s searing-hot shaft pushes abruptly through the tight ring of muscle. His mind reels, stupefied by the intensity of the stretching, burning, pleasure-pain as he is split open, impaled to the hilt in one long, slow plunge.

Steve gives him no time to acclimate. He is already sliding his cock out and pushing it in again, using his grip on Bucky’s wrists to pull him back into his thrusts, fucking choked sounds out of his open mouth as he pounds him mercilessly.

Bucky’s thighs begin to shake, as the knot of pressure winding in his gut tightens to an excruciating point. His cock is drooling clear fluid all over the linens, throbbing and aching for relief. Even the slightest touch and he’ll snap.

He gasps as Steve suddenly grabs him by a handful of his hair and drags him up, pressing his back against his chest. He has no idea what is happening, till Steve’s bleeding wrist is pushed forcefully into his mouth. The bitter, aromatic blood scintillates on his tongue and burns in his veins like fire. His hands fly up and take hold of Steve’s arm, clinging to him desperately as he swallows it in deep, ravenous draughts.

“Come now!” Steve barks. “Come for me!”

Bucky’s spine arches and his body goes rigid as he comes on command, his asshole squeezing and contracting on Steve’s thick, hot shaft, and his cock spitting clear streaks all over his chest and stomach and the mattress.

Steve fucks him through the spasms, working his hips like a piston, hammering his tender, convulsing hole. Finally, he drives his cock in to the base and holds it. He gives a hoarse cry as it throbs inside Bucky, flooding his insides with molten-hot fluid.

Bucky’s head lolls drunkenly backward onto Steve’s shoulder and he laughs a croaky, fucked-out laugh. Luckily, Steve is supporting him in his arms, because he’s pretty sure his limbs have turned into jello.

He is vaguely aware of Steve lowering him onto his stomach, pressing kisses to his neck and shoulders, and hears him murmuring something in his sweet, sonorous voice. He has no idea what it is. His brain refuses to do anything but float aimlessly in a blissful haze. Stupid, sexy wolf with his stupid, sexy wolf-stink and his stupid, sexy stubble. God, he loves Steve.

“I love you,” he mumbles into his pillow. “I love you…so much, you dumb wolf.”

“I love you too, Buck,” Steve says, stroking his back with his fingertips.

Bucky turns himself over and looks up into Steve’s big, stupid blue eyes. His throat suddenly feels tight and sore, and he finds himself fighting back tears.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Steve asks, his brow furrowing with concern. “Are you ok? Did I hurt you?”

“I’m so sorry, Steve,” Bucky half sobs, then swallows hard to steady his voice. “I’m sorry I made you worry. I’m just…I’m no good at this. Venom said I’m good, but not very good. Not like you. But I want to be, I swear. I’m trying so hard to be good for you.”

“Buck, I don’t understand where this is coming from. You are just as good as me. And who’s Venom?”

“He’s my collar. I mean, he was my collar. When I was at Hydra. He’s the weapon that CIA prick was looking for.”

Steve’s eyes flash warningly. “The weapon…was your collar?”

“No, don’t look like that. Hydra made him do those things. They fucked up his brain and made him a slave just like they did to me. That’s why Loki and I helped him get away.”

“You and Loki?” Steve says, more confused than ever. “What are you talking about?”

“I went to Loki’s looking for you and he told me you were with Allan, hunting for Venom. I gave Venom to him and smoked out of there before Wanda could track me. I went to the airport so Allan would think Venom hitched a ride and skipped town. Which worked perfectly, by the way.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Buck, that was incredibly reckless! This Venom thing is dangerous. How do you know you can trust him?”

“Steve, listen to me,” Bucky says, sitting up and taking his hands in his. “I am not stupid and I am not a child. Venom is dangerous as fuck, yes. But so are we. I know him, and I would trust him with my life.”

Steve draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Ok, Buck. If you trust him, that’s good enough for me. But it was still extremely risky to leave him with Loki. What if your plan didn’t fool Allan and he goes looking for him?”

“I think Loki and Venom can take care of themselves, but you’re right. It’s not a done deal till Allan fucks back off to Washington. We should probably head over there soon and touch base with them, anyway.”

“I am right, and yes we should.”

“You know, it’s funny. When Venom was in my head, all I wanted was for him to shut up for one fucking second, but now I kind of miss him.”

Steve makes a face. “You miss him?”

“I know it sounds weird, but it’s been fun having him around. He’s not human, so he’s strangely literal and constantly baffled by our ways. It’s pretty cute. He reminds me of you, actually.”

“So, what is he? I don’t understand how he can be a living thing and a weapon and your collar. And didn’t we destroy the collar?”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t all of him, just a piece of him. They cut it off and put it in my collar to control me through him.”

“Gross. How is that even possible?”

“He explains it better, but from what I understand, his brain isn’t central like ours are. All of it is in his whole body all the time. That means he can be two places at once. So, Hydra had him in this big tank thing and inside my collar, and they were controlling him with the mind stone. When Tash and the witch broke it, they lost control of him, but it fucked with his memory. He can’t remember anything from before except that he was taken away from someone he loved, who he calls his other. I have to help him find his other and recover his memory, if he can. I promised.”

Steve sits processing all of this for a moment, then takes another deep breath. “Well, then…I guess we better get in the shower. I want to meet this Venom guy.”

 

 

 

 

 

“How can you possibly have an opinion about this?”

“Mwowm,” Arabella replies, lifting her head to blink up at Loki from his lap.

“Not you, darling, you have made your position abundantly clear. I mean you, Venom. How can you possibly have anything to say regarding my personal affairs? You don’t even know me.”

**Know many things about you. Have listened much.**

“So, you’ve been…what? Eavesdropping on my conversations with Winter while you were hiding in him?”

**Yes. Also snooping.**

Loki laughs in spite of himself. “Snooping?”

**Yes, snooping. In your mind.**

“Good god, you can read my mind?”

**Can hear some thoughts. See some memories. Mostly feel emotions and intentions.**

“I see,” Loki says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “It would have been polite of Winter to make me aware of all that before he asked me to do this, but no matter. Thank you for your advice, unsolicited though it may have been. I will take it under consideration.”

**No.**

“No?”

**No more consideration. You must return to your mate.**

“Venom, I appreciate the sentiment, but—”

**Must. You are bonded. Like marriage. Wrong to be separated. Must return to him.**

“That is a strangely quaint idea, particularly coming from…whatever you are, but I will not be bound to a man I do not love simply to honor some archaic human tradition.”

**You love him.**

“No, I do not.”

**Do. Can feel it. You love him. Hurt for him. But you are angry.**

“I will admit to that. I am angry with Thor. He humiliated me and held me captive in his house. Did Winter tell you that part?”

**Know what he did. Does not matter. Not the reason you are angry.**

“What do you mean? Of course it is.”

**No. Angry he did not come sooner.**

“I don’t…you can’t possibly…” Loki begins weakly, but finds his will to maintain the argument punctured by this staggeringly precise blow.

He sits silent for a long moment, staring into the middle-distance and absently stroking Arabella’s velvety head.

“Thor does not love me, Venom,” he says, in a more subdued tone. “If he did, he would have tried harder to find me when I ran away. He would have come for me years ago.”

**You are young. Stupid. Do not understand him.**

Loki blinks. “I beg your pardon? Stupid?”

**Yes, stupid. Human brain. Slow and inefficient.**

“Well, I must say that is new. No one has ever accused me of stupidity before.”

**Most other humans are more stupid than you.**

“Oh. Um…thank you?”

**Thor is not human. Not stupid. He is wise. A power. Chose you. Loves you. Stupid to break your promise. Stupid to throw away his love. Return to him. He will forgive you.**

Loki bridles at this, becoming indignant again. “Forgive me? I don’t want his forgiveness, Venom. I will not be humiliated and made to—”

He breaks off with a startled cry as Venom takes sudden hold of all his limbs and yanks him forcefully to his feet.

**Did not see them coming. Too late to run.**

“Did not see who coming? What is happening?”

Before Venom can make any answer, several things happen at once. Arabella crouches and scurries away down the hall, just as the massive window explodes inward, sending a hurricane of fragmented glass flying into Loki’s living room. This is followed immediately by a bright flash and a sharp bang, like a firework going off.

Three men in black combat gear and ski masks swing in on rappel lines at the same moment that the front door is splintered and falls from its hinges. Two more men in combat gear and masks storm in through the doorway, leveling assault rifles at the surprisingly unruffled vampire, who stands observing them with his arms crossed.

“Do you have any idea,” he says haughtily, “what trouble I took to have a sorcerer temper that glass?”

One of the men lowers his rifle and steps forward, pulling off his mask.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, in a smug, Bronx twang. “You miss me?”

**Hunter. Dangerous.**

“Allan,” Loki hisses. “What the fuck are you and your squad of morons doing in my fucking house!”

“What, you’re not happy to see me? I’m hurt. I thought we really hit it off, you know?”

**Cannot disintegrate. Null grenade.**

“How—how did you find me?” Loki demands, stalling for time to think.

“I been doing what I do a long time, bloodsucker,” Allan replies. “You think I didn’t know who you were the minute I saw your pasty face? Now, you want to give us the weapon, or do I have to take it?”

**Will protect you. You must trust me. Give me control.**

“I trust you,” Loki whispers. “Take it.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” Allan smirks. “Hand it over, then.”

Loki doesn’t respond, or even seem to hear him. He stares blankly past the men, then his head drops forward, like a marionette whose strings have been suddenly cut. Allan’s compatriots exclaim in horror, as some kind of liquid, thick and viscous, blacker than black, gushes from Loki’s open mouth.

But the nightmare fluid is not pouring onto the floor. It is reaching out and clinging to his body. In a split second the vampire is gone, swallowed in a roiling mass of blackness, slick and oily, and sickeningly alive. Before two more seconds have passed, the bulging mass has built itself into a horrible, hulking demonic form, nearly eight feet tall, with massive, clawed hands and huge, slanted, white eyepits.

The creature’s leering mouth splits wide open to reveal hundreds of long, curved, razorblade fangs, and it snakes out a long, prehensile tongue, seeming to scent the air with it. Allan barely has time to jump backward a step, before black tendrils whip out and constrict about him, dragging him toward the creature. His assault rifle clatters to the floor as he struggles, shouting to his men to hold their fire.

“ **Not weapon** ,” the thing says, in a low, rasping rumble. “ **Do not belong to you**.”

Allan looks up into its demonic face, with something unreadable in his expression. “Sorry about this.”

Loki and Venom look down to see a small, rectangular device in his hand, but Allan has already pressed the button. The device emits a sound like a horde of titanic bats screeching in an electrical storm, and all at once, searing bolts of agony are splitting their minds apart, tearing them into a thousand pieces.

Their hold on each other strains and snaps. Loki crumples to ground as Venom’s slick-black mass falls away, writhing helplessly on the floor beside him. He is just able to roll onto his side, when one of the men drops a little blue orb and crushes it with his boot.

There is a bright-blue flash of light, and Loki finds his body instantly numbed and paralyzed. A restraining spell. They should’ve searched Allan’s gear more thoroughly. He lies watching in impotent rage, as Allan’s men set down a cylindrical container made of glass and steel, and drive Venom’s shuddering mass of black fluid into it.

“The US government thanks you for your cooperation, Lord Bolingbroke,” Allan says, sneering down at him. “I’m sure Shield is gonna want my head on a platter for this. Tell Captain Rogers I said good luck.”

He steps over Loki and collects his rifle, ordering his men to pick up the tank and clear out. In all the chaos and confusion, no one notices a tiny, white figure stealing silently through Loki’s splintered front door.

The men carrying the guns and the cylindrical tank are engrossed in their occupation as they traverse the stairs with their unwieldy cargo, and fail to see the same figure slip past and race down ahead of them.

As they hold the fire exit door open to carry the tank out to their waiting vehicle, this little master of stealth evades notice a third time, and darts out the door behind them, leaving the large, stupid bipedal creatures to their inane grunting sounds and senseless activities.

Arabella does not know the city, past what she observes from her high vantage point in her human servant’s penthouse, but she does not need to know the city. She needs only her hunter’s wits, and a scent. The wits are about her as a matter of course, and the scent soon follows.

Armed with these things, she chooses her path and springs into a graceful sprint, leaping lightly over a newspaper stand, and artfully avoiding human legs and feet as she navigates the bustle. At a marked crossing, she cleverly blends in with a herd of humans, so the vehicles won’t spot her and attempt to crush her while she traverses the dangerous street.

Once she is across, she pauses to catch the scent again. It is faint, but not enough so to suggest the passage of much time. She knows not too much time has passed, anyway. She has spotted her current quarry in the street far below her window several times, since its scent first arrived in her city.

As she bounds down a darkened alleyway, a few grimy alley-cats offer her ribald compliments, but she has no time to stop and teach them to mind their manners. She is a cat on a mission, and her errand will not be hindered.

She knows from the strength of the scent that her objective is not much further, though she does lament the fact that she has been rather letting herself go, recently. She makes a mental note to take more exercise as she waits for one of the stupid humans in the red uniforms to open the door for some other stupid humans.

Finally, the barrier swings open and she enters what she can only imagine is some sort of lunatic asylum. The lights are far too bright, the humans are far too loud and garishly clad, and there is poorly-played music being tortured out of a piano in the center of the marble-floored lobby.

Ugh, could that note have been any later? Why even play the classics if you’re just going to do whatever you damn well please with them? But she will berate this pathetic excuse for a pianist some other time. She is hunting now.

The elevator slides open and she briefly considers taking it, but realizes she has no idea how to operate the thing, and the stupid humans will never be made to comprehend her destination. She waits for the stairwell door instead, which is a much safer bet.

A woman who she guesses must be a carnival performer (based upon her manner of dress and the paint on her face) opens the door at last, and Arabella slips past her. The woman stops short and brays out, “Hey, is that someone’s cat?” as the superior being ascends the stairs too rapidly for her to follow.

When the feline infiltrator arrives at the floor to which the scent has led her (somewhere around the hundred and ninetieth, from the feel of it), she is more than a bit winded. She really must get back into shape, this is becoming embarrassing. She sits down by the door, catching her breath as she waits for some human to open it.

After a little while, she continues to wait. And waits some more. For the love of god, she will be reduced to this, then. She hopes her human appreciates the sacrifices she makes on his behalf. She steels her will, takes a deep breath, then stands up against the door and yowls at the top of her little lungs.

This produces no immediate result, but she valiantly continues to yowl and claw at the door, determined not to be stayed by this obstacle. At last, her persistence is rewarded. Drawn by the noise, a curious human lumbers over to open the door, and she is through. She hisses and spits by way of thanks as she bolts past him, galloping down a hallway of tasteless carpet and identical off-white doors.

The scent leads her directly to the correct door, and she prepares herself to be abased once more in devotion to her human servant. With as much dignity as she can, she raises herself on her hind legs and claws at this second door, yowling piteously as she does so. Fortunately for her errand, the sense of hearing is not equal among all humans, and the door is opened with alacrity.

Then there is a rather awkward moment. It occurs to her, as she looks up into the face of the big, yellow-maned dog-man, that she does not speak his language. He is a dog-man, too, and thus likely to be more stupid than other humans, so there is little hope of making him understand her. Nonetheless, she gives one of her most beseeching mews and waits anxiously for his response.

“Greetings, cat,” he says, looking utterly bewildered. “Are you lost?”

Points deducted from estimated IQ.

“Murrm,” she explains urgently. “Murrmwah.”

“Wait a moment…you must be Loki’s cat,” the dimwitted dog man says, kneeling down to look at her more closely. “I can smell his scent all over you. How very strange.”

Interesting. Points added to estimated IQ.

“Mwurr,” she prompts eagerly.

“But how did you know to look for me?” the slightly less stupid than a moment ago dog-man asks. “And how did you manage to come here on your own?”

“Bwah,” she replies, with a touch of impatience.

“You are right, that’s not important,” he agrees. “What do you need? Can I help you somehow?”

“Mwoww,” she wails, placing herself in an attitude of supreme distress. “Mwowwwww!”

“He’s in trouble,” the growing more intelligent by the second dog-man says. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Is he at home?”

“Merurff,” she confirms.

“We’ll go to him straightaway. It will be better if I carry you, little lady,” he says courteously. “Do you mind?”

“Mwew,” she daintily assents.

Her leave thus granted, the huge dog-man scoops her up in his absurdly muscular arms, and she rides triumphantly down the hall to the elevator, which had thwarted her before. It is no trouble now, with her knight in dark-brown leather to press the buttons, and soon they have made their way to the lobby.

As they pass by the concierge desk, some idiotic female humans assail them to gush over the loveliness of the kitty (she knows she’s beautiful, you fools, she’s also in a hurry). The dog-man replies with some polite nonsense, but he does not slacken his pace, which raises him even further in Arabella’s estimation.

“We’re going to move very quickly, now, my dear,” the dog-man tells her, once they are outside. “Don’t let go, whatever you do.”

He wraps his arm securely around her haunches and she digs her claws deep into his leather jacket, then they are off like a shot. The unexpected speed at which he runs dizzies her and sets her heart pounding like a drum. Mustering all her courage, she bravely buries her face in his chest, to tremble like a leaf till the ordeal is over.

After what feels like hours, but in reality is likely closer to three or four minutes, they have arrived back at her own building, where the doorman recognizes her immediately. After a little sweet-talk from the marvelously useful dog-man, said doorman agrees to allow him up to the penthouse to return Mr. Loki’s pet.

Arabella takes deep offense at the derogatory term, but she is so elated to be home and pleased with her mission’s success, that she doesn’t bother to take a swipe at him while he is entering the elevator code for them. She does make a mental note to claw a nice run in his trousers next time she gets a chance, though. She brooks no insolence from the help.

The scene inside the penthouse is every bit as alarming as she had attempted to describe to her escort. The living room window blown in, glass everywhere, and her human lying on the floor, unable to move.

The dog-man sets her on the sofa and rushes to her human’s side, speaking to him soothingly as he lifts him in his arms. Arabella hops up onto the back of the sofa so he can lay her human on it, then watches with deep concern as the dog-man bites into his wrist and makes it bleed, then presses it to her human’s mouth.

She is immensely relieved when, after a few seconds, her human takes a deep, gasping breath and throws his arms about the dog-man’s neck. The dog-man holds him close and strokes his black hair as they speak to one another in low, earnest tones.

Arabella waits patiently as they continue talking this way for what she considers far longer than necessary. Then they both begin leaking water from their eyes, which she finds painfully awkward to watch. Humans (and apparently dog-humans) are embarrassingly demonstrative at times. Even hers, who is far better than most.

Ugh, now what are they about? She will never understand what these creatures find so captivating about one another’s tongues, or why they would feel the need to put said tongues into each other’s mouths, but evidently it is deeply interesting to them. She regards the whole enterprise as rather sordid, but decides it would be rude to remark upon it at such a delicate moment.

After several minutes of the disgusting display, however, they are still pawing at each other and pressing their mouths together. No one is thanking her, or even paying the slightest bit of attention to her. Her! The hero of the entire situation!

Alright, that’s it. She has had just about enough of this horseshit. Drawing herself up with the air of an offended empress, she marches over to stand behind their heads on the back of the sofa.

“Myaww!” she asserts, at a higher than strictly courteous volume.

“Arabella, my darling, I’m terribly sorry,” her human says, reaching out to lift her into his lap. “You must have been so frightened. Everything will be alright, I promise.”

She is inclined to take umbrage at his assumption that she’d been hiding all this time like a witless ninny, but the look on his face when the dog-man explains her courageous conduct is more than worth all the danger and adversity she has braved.

Then follows the effusive outpouring of astonishment and gratitude and cuddles and scratches upon the head, and she forgives them both forthwith for not acknowledging her properly right away. They are, after all, only stupid humans, and they are doing their best.

Now, if they will only separate their mouths long enough to procure her something to eat, she will consider her noble and valorous deed fully repaid. She does recall her recent vow to get back into shape, but she can always begin that tomorrow.

She is Arabella the Indomitable, cat of boundless gallantry, stalwart champion of her human, and hero of the age. And she really has earned some goddamned fish.

 

 

 

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

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> ****HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STEVE!!!!*****
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“Guess who’s back!” a cheerful voice exclaims, as the door to the briefing room swings open.

“I guess Sam,” Tash says, shielding her eyes with her hand. “And Clint. Damn it, you two, that shit is fucking blinding.”

Sam looks theatrically offended. “You don’t like our holy radiation? But look how glorious we are!”

“I can’t look, you’re covered in thousand-watt light bulbs. Why don’t you bother someone else till it wears off. Go show Steve. He’ll love it.”

“Sorry about the divine radiance,” Clint says, correcting his husband’s creative terminology. “It soaks into everything up there. Wasn’t much we could do about it.”

“I’m not sorry. I’m beautiful,” Sam says resolutely. “Wanna see my wings?”

“Only if you want me to turn the fire extinguisher on you,” Tash retorts, still squinting.

“You can’t extinguish my splendor! I’ll sparkle at you so hard you won’t even know what hit you. Except you will, and it’ll be me. With heaven sparkles.”

“We’ll get out of your hair in a sec,” Clint interjects apologetically. “We thought you’d want to know what we found out about that CIA prick. Carol says yes, he’s a demon hunter and no, she won’t tell us anything else about him.”

“Thanks, but you’re a little late,” Tash says. “We got that much from him already. Carol said specifically that she wouldn’t tell you anything else about him?”

“Yep,” Sam says. “And she kind of made a big deal out of it, so we figure that was her way of letting us know there was definitely something else we should be looking for.”

“Not too subtle, but she probably didn’t want to take any chances with you two and your thick skulls. I’ll see what I can dig up. The situation has developed since you’ve been gone, and Allan is a top-priority target now.”

“Shit. What happened?” Clint asks.

“Shit is what happened,” Tash says, shaking her head. “A whole bunch of it. Turns out this weapon he was after is a friend of Winter’s.”

“A friend?”

“Yeah, but I’ll let Winter explain that part. Long story short, he and Loki hatched some harebrained scheme to throw Allan off its track. Allan wasn’t fooled and his gang of CIA pricks busted into Loki’s penthouse and took the thing. Which was highly illegal, not to mention a serious violation of Shield’s agreement with the DoD. Fury’s been raising hell, but they’re claiming Allan’s actions were unsanctioned, he never reported in, and that they don’t have a location on him.”

“Looks like they closed ranks, then,” Clint says.

“Looks like it, but for now, we have no choice but to treat it like Allan’s actually absconded with the weapon, and not just back under the CIA’s wing enjoying a promotion. We’re pretty much flying blind on a wild goose chase.”

“You want us on it?”

“If you feel like it, but there isn’t much to do at this point,” Tash shrugs. “Thor and the wolves are already assisting. Thor took it pretty personally, having his mate’s home blown to shit and his life endangered.”

“Oh no!” Sam gasps. “My little Moo-moo! Is she ok? She didn’t get hurt, did she?”

“Arabella?” Tash says, arching an eyebrow. “She was the hero of the whole situation. I was tempted to commission her as a Shield agent, after I heard what she did.”

“That’s my princess,” Sam says proudly. “What’d she do? Claw those bad guys’ eyes out?”

“You really should have Loki tell you the story. He and Arabella are staying at Thor’s hotel while his place is getting fixed up.”

“Loki’s staying at Thor’s hotel?” Clint asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I told you, a lot has happened. Steve and Winter are down in the security sector. They can catch you up on the details. Now get the fuck out of my office, you’re giving me a migraine.”

“This is a briefing room, Tash,” Clint smirks. “You ever gonna get a real office?”

“Not if I can help it,” Tash grins. “Out! Shoo!”

“If a single whisker on my sweet Moo-moo has been so much as rumpled, I’ll visit righteous vengeance upon those motherfuckers like they’ve never imagined,” Sam says to Clint, as they step out into the hall. “It’ll be like the book of Revelation up in this—hey, Wanda! Wanna see my wings?”

“Shut the goddamned door!” Tash shouts from the briefing room.

Clint shuts the goddamned door in question, as Sam unfurls his massive wings for the benefit of Wanda, who is standing with another agent, a few yards away. Rather than their usual deep shade of falcon-brown, the glossy feathers are brilliant silver-white, and are radiating light from within. The gesture would have been more magnificent, were they not a bit cramped by the narrow space, but Wanda appears sufficiently awed to satisfy Sam.

“Oh, wow,” she says. “They are wonderful, Sam. What happened to you two? You are both very shiny.”

“We’ve been upstairs,” Clint explains. “Sorry if we’re too bright, it’s just the lingering divine radiance.”

“It does not bother me at all,” Wanda smiles. “I think it is quite beautiful.”

“That’s because you’re human and you can appreciate true glory,” Sam says. “Not like all these heathen hellspawn around here. No offense, Aiko.”

“None taken,” the vampire agent who has been standing with Wanda says, avoiding looking directly at them. “I’m gonna head back to my desk and try to recover my vision.”

“Sorry, Aiko,” Clint calls after her, then turns to Wanda. “As you can see, Sam’s gone mad with power. He’s been walking around blinding people since we got here.”

“I am mad with power and I’m not even a little bit sorry,” Sam declares. “I have seen the holy of holies! I have drunk from the fountain eternal! I have sat at a table of ivory with the heavenly host and played D&D!”

“Last time I take a fucking half-angel to see his relatives,” Clint says, shaking his head. “You know they all talk like that up there? It’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Sam intones, with a grand air. “You’re just jealous because I leveled up way more than you. Behold, children of men! My dark-elf rogue cannot be overcome by paltry—”

“Alright, that’s enough, jackass,” Clint interrupts. “We’ll see you later, Wanda. He’s not fit for polite company right now.”

“Bye guys,” Wanda laughs, as Clint leads his husband away. “I am glad you had a nice time!”

Sam is forced to dismiss his (honestly spectacular) wings in order to fit into the elevator, about which he pouts dejectedly, until Clint threatens to take him home and fuck the heavenly sass out of him. This cheers him up considerably, and by the time they arrive in the sub-basement, he is fully returned to his jovial—if a bit grandiose—humor.

“Ow! God damn it!” Bucky growls, shielding his eyes as they walk into the security office. “Why the fuck are you birds glowing up the place like a couple of asshole angels?”

“Holy radiation!” Sam announces, spreading his arms majestically. “Bask in it!”

“Divine radiance,” Clint corrects again. “Sorry, Winter, it’ll wear off soon.”

“Christ, it’s like Liberace had a baby with a searchlight,” Bucky grumbles, feeling his way toward the door. “I’m going to hang out with Josef till you guys leave.”

“I said bask, Dorkula!” Sam demands, puffing out his chest. “Don’t make me strike you down!”

“Fuck off, bird. You can’t strike me down, you’re just more irritating than usual.”

“I missed you, too,” Sam calls after him. “Hey! Where’s my hugs?”

Bucky responds by raising his middle finger behind him as he walks away down the hall.

“He missed me so much, look at him. He can barely contain himself,” Sam says, looking eminently pleased with this result. “So, what’s up with the pricks and the weapon?”

“Allan and his goons broke into Loki’s place and took it,” Steve says, as he switches on the closed-circuit feed from Josef’s cell out of habit. Bucky is just entering, and Josef is rolling a ball about on the floor. “The CIA says they don’t have it or him, so we have to hunt him down and get it back, because it’s Winter’s friend and he promised to help it.”

“Tash told us about that,” Clint says. “The part we don’t understand is how it’s a weapon, but also Winter’s friend.”

“It’s some kind of creature that can hide inside people’s bodies. Hydra enslaved it with the mind stone and were using it to control Winter through his collar. When we broke the stone, it escaped and hid in Rumlow till it found Winter again.”

“Was that what was making him poisonous?” Clint asks.

“Yeah, but Winter says it didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to use its venom, and it stopped when he told it to knock it off.”

“That’s some crazy shit, man,” Sam says, shaking his head. “And he trusts this thing?”

“Yep. With his life. Which means I do too, unless it gives me a reason not to.”

“Alright, so how do we find it?”

“Hang on a minute,” Clint says. “Tash thinks Allan went running back to the CIA with it and they closed ranks. You don’t agree?”

“I don’t,” Steve says. “I mean, that seems to be the most plausible scenario, but I just don’t buy it.”

“Why not?”

“Call it instinct. Allan was never playing straight with us and something tells me we aren’t the only ones. Whatever his game is, I don’t believe the CIA is any more aware of it than we are.”

“You think he never intended to bring it to them?” Sam asks.

“That’s what I suspect, yeah. He doesn’t behave like he has much respect for the agency he’s working for, and he doesn’t seem to have too many qualms about deception and double-dealing.”

“What’s he going to do with it, then?” Clint frowns. “It’s not he like can just sell it—oh, holy shit. He can just sell it. But to who?”

“I don’t know, but a weapon like that would have to be worth a fucking fortune to anyone crazy enough to want it. Shield doesn’t happen to have any ears to the ground in the black-market weapons trade, do they?”

“Actually, I might have someone,” Sam says.

“You know a black-market arms dealer?” Steve asks, surprised.

“Let’s just say I know a guy who knows a guy. From what I understand, no big-time illegal weapons move in the city without him finding out about it.”

“Can you get a hold of your guy?”

“I mean, yeah,” Sam says hesitantly. “Thing is, the guy my guy knows isn’t strictly on the up-and-up with the law.”

“Sticking to the letter of the law is pretty much the last thing I care about at this point. If he can give us anything to go on, I don’t need to know anything else about him.”

“I’ll see what I can do. It’ll have to wait till tomorrow, though. My buddy’s not an all-nighter type like us.”

“Ok,” Steve nods. “Thanks, Sam. Are you guys heading home now?”

“Not before I see my Moo-moo! I heard she was a very good, brave girl and I want to know the whole story.”

“Well, Winter and I are about to go over to Thor’s hotel. You should come with us.”

“Ooh, yeah,” Sam says, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “Let’s go before my angel glow wears off. I want to impress Thor with it.”

“You mean you want to annoy Loki with it,” Clint says.

“Annoy Loki!” Sam exclaims, all affronted virtue. “I am surprised at you, Clintford. I would never put my heaven radiation to mischievous uses.”

“Clint is not short for Clintford and putting your heaven radiation to mischievous uses is all you’ve been doing all evening. Steve, are you sure you want to unleash my husband on your friends? He’s completely out of control.”

“I can see that,” Steve laughs. “Don’t worry, Thor and the wolves can handle Sam, even at full sass power.”

 

 

 

 

Loki turns over onto his stomach in the plush linens and downy pillows that are piled all about this massive bed. As he does, the bedsheet slides down his back, falling in such a way that it just covers him from the waist down. He props himself up on his elbows and kicks it the rest of the way off. He knows how best to display his leanly muscular back and trim waist (not to mention his taut, round ass) and is not about to squander an opportunity to do so.

His brow furrows and he shifts uncomfortably, feeling an unaccustomed pang of guilt as he catches himself in this innocuous little manipulation. But intentionally posing one’s body in a manner designed to please one’s lover is not really dishonest, is it? Honesty is a perplexing game, and not one to which he is habituated. What are the rules? Where does detrimental deception end, and the de rigueur behavior required for successful and pleasant social interplay begin?

Arriving at no satisfactory conclusion, he sighs and straightens his arms, arching his back to stretch his overwrought muscles. In this actual unguarded moment, of course, he hears a footstep behind him.

“You are so beautiful,” a low, sonorous voice says.

He lowers himself back onto his elbows, but he doesn’t turn look at the speaker. “I am pleased that you think so.”

“Are you?” The voice draws nearer, and a solid weight presses down on the mattress beside him. “You do not seem to be pleased by such observations. You never did.”

“You are right. I am not,” Loki admits, giving an involuntary shudder as a large, heavy, blazing-hot hand comes to rest on the small of his back. “Do not mistake me, it does please me that you find me beautiful. It is only that I have heard the phrase so many times, it has lost much of its meaning.”

“You wish to be admired for traits other than your beauty,” Thor says. “That is fair and reasonable.”

“No,” Loki says, finally looking up into his sea-grey eyes. “I do not wish to be admired at all. I wish to be… _known_. To be truly known and yet to be loved, in spite of all that is wicked in me.”

Thor smiles, which softens and illuminates his stern, handsome features. “That is well, then, for I know you and I love you.”

“I do not think that you do know me. I am a liar. A killer. Unscrupulous, avaricious, and unmerciful. How can you say you love me, if you know what I am?”

“You are so young, my love.” Strands of Thor’s long, golden hair brush against Loki’s side as he leans down to press warm lips to his icy-cold shoulder. “You know little of true evil. Outside this sheltered realm, nameless horrors stalk the void. Ancient beings of mindless malice swallow entire worlds and are not sated. But even here, you are among the innocent. What wickedness is in you is trivial, and not woven into your native fiber.”

“And yet you said yourself that I am a serpent. That I am without honor. Winter called me a viper. Those are the judgements of my character from the only—” Loki breaks off and looks away again.

“I bitterly regret those words. My pride was wounded by your coldness and I spoke injudiciously in my wrath. It is not the first time I have said things I regret in the heat of the moment, and it will likely not be the last. I have been rather lost without you.”

“Without me?” Loki frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“Patience and forethought are not virtues with which I have been overly endowed,” Thor explains. “You, on the other hand, are able to stay levelheaded and think before you act, no matter what the situation. I have missed having you there to temper me. Balancing my rashness with your counsel.”

“I did not know my counsel was so worthwhile to you. In truth, I did not realize that I had anything of value to contribute to our—to your…I cannot seem to frame what I am attempting to say.”

“You can say our relationship. It isn’t a dirty word.”

“Are you certain?” Loki asks, making a face as if he’s tasted something bitter. “It sounds awfully tawdry spoken aloud.”

“Loki, listen to me. I am truly sorry for what I said. I did not mean it. Will you forgive me?”

Loki bites his lip, appearing to consider this. “Well, it is either that or hold the grudge forever, which seems unpleasant and tedious. And they say love keeps no record of wrongs, so…I suppose I have no choice. Yes, I forgive you.”

“Do you?”

“I just said I did, wolf. Pay attention.”

“I mean do you love me?”

Loki’s vampire skin can’t flush like a human’s or a wolf’s would, but he lowers his eyes and lets his long hair fall over his face, and the effect is the same. “You know that I do.”

“Tell me,” Thor insists, pushing his face into the crook of Loki’s neck. “Please, I need to hear you say it.”

Despite feeling intensely embarrassed by the idea, Loki clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “I…I love you.”

There is a pause.

“That sounded as if it hurt. Are you going to be alright?”

“I believe I shall manage to muddle along,” Loki says drily.

“I certainly hope so,” Thor laughs, taking his hand and kissing it. “Why is it so difficult for you to say?”

“My Victorian upbringing, I suppose,” Loki shrugs. “I was taught that to speak one’s feelings aloud was to impose them upon others, and thus the height of discourtesy.”

“How very strange. I was taught quite the opposite. Among my people, to conceal what is passing in one’s mind is thought to be a sign of cowardice, or some ill intent. We are expected to be unfailingly forthright, even with our enemies.”

“There are flaws in both systems. My reserve makes me appear untrustworthy, even when I am being honest, and your openness makes you appear impetuous and ruled by your emotions.”

“Well…I _am_ impetuous and ruled by my emotions.”

Loki opens his mouth to respond, but quite suddenly, Thor takes hold of him and flips him onto his back, then climbs over him. From this advantageous position, he proceeds to pin his vampire beloved’s wrists above his head and pepper his face with kisses.

“What are you doing! Stop that!” Loki demands, struggling ineffectually against the god of thunder’s formidable strength. “Unhand me, you absurd wolf!”

“Nonsense. I have got you where I want you, and I intend to keep you here,” Thor says, letting more of his weight rest on Loki’s body. “Besides, you’re only pretending not to like it.”

“Yes, but you are not supposed to acknowledge it outright,” Loki rejoins, still trying to twist free. “You are supposed to overpower me in spite of my protestations.”

“Am I, indeed?” Thor muses. “I thought I was meant to respect your bodily autonomy and obtain your consent before I overpower you.”

“I have given it and given it. Now let me pretend to bravely fight you off to preserve my virtue.”

Thor raises a blonde eyebrow. “I am afraid the ship has sailed on preserving your virtue, my love. Many times over. In the past twenty-four hours alone.”

“I am wildly aware, wolf. I am sore in muscles I didn’t know I had. Pity the bites healed so quickly, though. I rather liked the way they looked.”

“So did I. But putting them back again is half the fun.”

“I am rather inclined to agree with—what in god’s name is that squawking sound?”

“My telephone,” Thor says, letting him go and hopping up. He finds his jeans on the floor and digs his phone out of the pocket. “It is a message from Steve Rogers. He says that he and Winter are on their way, and that Falcon and Hawkeye will be joining us, as well. Excellent.”

“Yes, excellent. A full battalion of interruptions,” Loki grouses. “I suppose we should bathe and dress, then, so they do not arrive to find us in our natural glory.”

“I’d nearly forgotten your prim and proper vampire ways,” Thor laughs, leaning over to press a kiss into his silky black hair. “Very well, we shall bathe and dress. Do you think they will want supper?”

“You must eat, whether they do or not, or you will be growly. I’ll have something sent up from the restaurant. You still prefer whatever are the biggest, bloodiest chunks of meat on offer, yes?”

“You know me so well. Are you not coming to shower with me?”

“Absolutely not. I’ll bathe when you’ve finished. You cannot be trusted.”

“You’re only saying that because I’ve demonstrated that I cannot be trusted,” Thor grins, attempting to draw him in for yet another kiss.

“I am trying to order your supper, you impossible wolf,” Loki says, warding him off with the hotel phone, as if it is a weapon. “Go and bathe!”

 

 

 

 

“Where’s my baby girl!” Sam demands, as he and Clint enter Thor’s suite, followed by Steve and Bucky. “Come to me, my Moo-moo!”

Arabella’s head pops up from behind the back of the sofa, her large, green eyes blinking sleepily. Having been abruptly awakened from her nap, she takes a moment to process the situation, then hops over and trots directly to Sam.

“Hey, princess, I missed you,” Sam coos, crouching down to stroke her fluffy fur. “Guess what? I brought you a present.”

“Mwuu?” Arabella inquires politely, seating herself on her round haunches.

“No, it’s not food, but you’re gonna like it. Check this out.”

From his pocket, Sam draws out what appears to be a large marble made of uncommonly clear and flawless glass, but is slightly malleable to the touch, like a rubber ball. He sets it on the carpet before Arabella, who sniffs it idly, then looks up at him with an expression of condescending patience.

“Look,” Sam says. “You gotta hit it with your paw. Like this.”

He reaches out and taps the thing with his forefinger, and it begins to glow a soft gold. Arabella looks down at it. As soon as she does, it springs to life, rolling to and fro of its own volition, and making a tinkling sound, like a tiny bell. Her interest suddenly and fully engaged, Arabella leaps up and swats at it, which causes it to speed away across the floor, glowing and tinkling merrily, with its feline hunter in hot pursuit.

“How delightful,” Thor says, as cat and ball make a u-turn and go racing past his feet. “What is it, Sam?”

“It’s a thing the cats upstairs were playing with. I told Carol about Moo-moo and she gave me one to bring home to her. When playtime is over, you just call to it, and it’ll stop glowing and come back to you.”

“It looks really fun,” Steve says, eyeing the self-propelled toy with a palpable touch of envy.

“Sorry, Steve, they don’t make a version for wolves,” Sam laughs. “But if you ask nice, I bet Moo-moo will let you play, too.”

“I don’t think Thor wants Steve tearing around his hotel room knocking shit over,” Bucky says, squinting behind his violet-lensed sunglasses. “Speaking of which, where’s Loki?”

“He is dressing and will be out in a moment,” Thor answers. “Are any of you hungry? Any of you who eat human food, that is? The hotel has an excellent restaurant.”

Sam and Clint look up to say no, thank you, then return to watching Arabella stalk the ball, which is attempting to evade capture by rolling along behind the heavy curtains that cover the door to the balcony.

“I should probably eat,” Steve says. “I’ve been smelling steak since we walked in and it’s making me a little wolfy.”

“If Steve’s getting food, I want coffee,” Bucky puts in, as he flops down on the sofa. “I have a splitting headache from the birds and their fucking angel radiation.”

“The two of you do seem more luminous than usual, now that Winter mentions it,” Thor says, turning to Clint and Sam. “What is angel radiation?”

“Divine radiance,” Clint corrects, yet again. “We soaked up a bunch upstairs, and Sam wanted to come over and annoy Loki with it. And hear about Arabella’s heroics, if there’s time.”

At that moment, the bedroom door opens and Loki steps out, then stops short, throwing a hand up to shield his eyes. The ball, sensing a new avenue of escape, goes darting through the open door, with Arabella close behind.

“What the devil is going on?” Loki asks, bewildered. “What is Arabella chasing, and why am I being blinded?”

“Divine radiance!” Sam chirps.

“Divi—” Clint begins, then stops, realizing Sam has actually managed to use the correct term. “Yeah, that. It’ll wear off soon.”

“I should hope so,” Loki says irritably. “It is positively unbearable. I’ll have to get my sunglasses.”

“I hope they’re enchanted,” Bucky calls to him. “Otherwise they’re not gonna help for shit.”

“Of course they are, Winter. What do think I am, an amateur?” Loki sniffs, tossing his black hair as he vanishes back into the bedroom.

He reemerges a moment later, wearing a pair of gold-framed sunglasses with dark lenses, which match his gold cigarette case and lighter. As he is seating himself in the easy chair across from the sofa, Arabella prances in triumphantly.

She has captured her ball and is carrying it between her teeth, where it is wriggling and tinkling, as if struggling to free itself. With the air of a goddess bestowing a gift upon a lesser being, she trots over and drops it at Sam’s feet, then hops into Loki’s lap to wink benevolently upon her crowd of admirers. The light in the ball goes out and Sam picks it up.

“I’m glad you like your present, Moo-moo,” he says, handing it to Loki. “You just let your papa know whenever you want to chase it some more. Now, someone better tell me this story about my little muffin being a hero, or I’m gonna get my wings out and blind all your asses.”

 

 

 

 

 

The next evening, Sam finds his friend in the basement of a neighborhood rec center, where he holds a weekly support-group for disabled veterans. On a low table against the wall, there is a coffee pot, along with a number of pamphlets and books, all related to issues faced by returning veterans, and information regarding mental health, PTSD, and the like.

The man himself is a tall, rather handsome, dark-skinned gentleman, who appears to be (though he is not, in reality, since Sam is immortal and does not age) a few years older than Sam. His athletic body bears the telltale signs of a man who has spent his life in some martial profession, and he walks with a barely-noticeable limp.

When Sam enters, he is in the act of picking up a folding chair, which has been arranged with others in a circle the center of the room. Hearing someone approach, he turns to look, then smiles, setting down the chair and extending his hand.

“Hey, Sam,” he says. “Good to see you, man.”

“Hey, Curtis,” Sam replies, shaking the proffered hand. “Can I help?”

“Sure, thanks. The guys usually put ‘em away, but only a couple showed up tonight, because of the rain, and they’re busted up worse than me.”

“How you been?” Sam asks, as he folds a chair and hangs it on the rack. “How’s the leg?”

“Same as last time we saw each other,” Curtis says. “Good days and bad days. The trick is taking ‘em one at a time.”

“Thanks again for coming to the memorial. It meant a lot to Riley that you were there.”

“He was a good man. I wouldn’t have missed it. But, uh…don’t you mean it would have meant a lot to him? He wasn’t exactly around to know about it.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, as he picks up another chair. “I guess I misspoke.”

“Right. So, what brings you down to the basement? If you came for group, you’re a little late.”

“Actually, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

Curtis straightens up and eyes him cagily. “What kind of favor?”

“You know what kind,” Sam says, stowing the chair and turning to face him.

“I see. And what makes you think I could even do that kind of favor?”

“Come on, man. I know he’s still in town and I know you’re in contact. I’m sorry to put you on the spot like this, but it’s important.”

“Just cause it’s important to you guys doesn’t mean he’s gonna give a shit. What is it?”

“A weapon was stolen from us. We think the guy who stole it is gonna try to sell it here in New York.”

“A weapon,” Curtis says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Just one?”

“Just one.”

“Ok. I’m listening. What kind of weapon?”

“I can’t exactly describe it, but I guarantee it’s not like anything you’ve ever seen. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen shit you wouldn’t believe.”

“I bet you have, but that’s not much to go on,” Curtis says doubtfully. “How am I supposed to tell him to be on the lookout for a weapon I can’t describe?”

“You won’t need to describe it. The guy who has it is former SOG, working for the CIA-PRIRD.”

Curtis blinks. “Oh. Shit.”

“Exactly. So, you see why I came to you.”

“It’s making more sense now, yeah. You want us to shake the former-military tree, see what falls out?”

“If you could, I’d appreciate it. The guy’s name is Captain Charles Allan. He had a team with him. Four other men, all former Special Forces. They broke into a safehouse and took the weapon the night before last. CIA says they haven’t reported in and their actions were unsanctioned.”

“And you think this Allan guy arranged a buyer here in the city?”

“That’s our best guess. Seemed like he had a hell of a fire under his ass to get his hands on the thing. We’re thinking he made a deal with the kind of people who don’t like to be kept waiting, and he was in a hurry to make good on it.”

“Ok, then. I’ll make the call. But you have to know, you hand him this thing, he’s gonna do it his way. If you’re looking to bring this Allan guy in alive, you might want to try and find him yourselves first.”

“Yeah…about that,” Sam says. “There’s something he should know before he goes in guns blazing and gets himself killed for real. Allan is a Hunter.”

“I’m guessing you don’t mean deer and shit.”

“I mean a demon hunter. He’s dangerous as fuck, even without this weapon, but if he gets spooked, he might try to use it. If that happens, there aren’t enough bullets in the world to stop him. All we want is information. A buyer, a location, someone who may have got wind of a big-time deal going down, anything.”

“Fuck me,” Curtis says, passing a hand over his brow. “Alright, I’ll make sure he understands that. Something like this, though…it’s a little out of our pay-grade. We mostly deal with regular bad guys. You know. Human ones.”

“We?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you retired.”

“Hey, I gotta do something to stay sharp,” Curtis says, with a sly smile. “They say senility starts setting in early if you don’t keep yourself occupied.”

“Same old Curtis,” Sam laughs, slapping his friend on the back.

“Pretty much, give or take most of a leg,” Curtis shrugs. “I’ll let you know what he says. Like I said, though, this might be out of our wheelhouse, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“I won’t. Thank you for doing this, man. I owe you.”

“Not as much I owe you. This won’t make us even by a long shot.”

“I know,” Sam grins. “I’ll see you soon. Take care, Curtis.”

“You too, Sam. Later.”

Curtis waits till his friend is gone, then he draws his phone from his pocket and types a message. After a minute or two, it vibrates with a response. He reads it, then he taps the screen and holds the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he says, then pauses, listening. “I know, but you’re gonna want to hear this one. Because it came from Sam Wilson. The only Sam Wilson we know. That’s what I thought. Yeah, I’m leaving now. What? Fuck’s sake, Frank, you’re a grown-ass man. You are capable of going to a grocery—fine. No, don’t send me a fucking list, I’m not your mother. Ok. Yep. Anything else? You want me to get you some juice boxes and graham crackers, while I’m at it? No, asshole, I wasn’t serious—yeah, well you better. You’re welcome. See you in an hour.”

He stuffs his phone back into his pocket and collects his pamphlets, muttering to himself about being a goddamned grocery delivery-service for dead Marines, then pulls on his jacket and heads out into the wet and dreary evening, shutting the lights off behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	36. Chapter 36

 

 

 

 

“God damn it,” Lt. Langley grunts, as he and his teammate attempt to hoist the unwieldy tank into the back of the SUV. “Control your end, Anderson, you almost smashed my fucking thumb.”

“I’m trying,” Anderson rejoins. “This thing weighs a fucking shit-ton.”

“Shut the fuck up and go start the truck,” Captain Allan growls, taking hold of the end of the tank Anderson has been struggling with.

Anderson trots off to hop into the driver’s seat as Allan lifts his end with one hand and little apparent difficulty, lowering the thing into the narrow space, while his subordinate makes a valiant effort to assist. Around its cylindrical housing, he fastens and tightens three seatbelt-style straps, which are attached by bolts to the floor of the vehicle. When he is satisfied that the rigging is secure, he and Langley climb into the back seat, and the vehicle pulls away into the bustling Manhattan traffic.

“Wish we could’ve stayed to see that bloodsucker burn,” Thompson remarks jauntily. “They go up like the Fourth of July.”

This produces a laugh from Lieutenants Langley, Byers, and Anderson. Their superior officer, however, does not appear amused.

“Glad you all think that’s funny,” Allan says flatly. “I hate to spoil the joke, but he ain’t gonna burn.”

“Why not, sir?” Langley asks, confused.

“Why would he?” Allan returns.

“Well, I mean, it’ll be sunrise is in a couple hours, and we left him incapacitated in front of a huge broken window. I assumed that was the plan, sir.”

“You assumed wrong. That stunner I gave you won’t last an hour. He’ll be up well before sunrise.”

“But…why would you do that, sir?” Byers frowns. “Loki is a serious big-bad vamp. Our file on him is like two inches thick.”

“Same reason I’m in charge. Cause I’m the only one with a brain. That vamp burns inside the thirtieth floor penthouse, what do you think happens to the rest of the high-rise? That’s right. The whole place goes up with him. You want to be responsible for the deaths of a bunch of civilians and kids?”

“No, sir,” is the unanimous response from his erring subordinates.

Thus chastised, they sit in contrite silence, not wanting to draw further ire from their stern and often volatile commander.

“Anderson,” Allan says, after a few minutes pass. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Anderson looks more confused than usual. “Uh…driving, sir?”

“I see. And where, pray tell, are you taking us?”

“To the, uh—to the extraction point,” Anderson says, growing increasingly flustered under his commander’s scrutiny.

“Oh, outstanding,” Allan replies drily. “I’m glad you told me. Because it looks like you’re taking us on a fucking sightseeing tour of the East Village.”

“I’m just following the GPS, sir,” Anderson pleads. “It says to take the I-495 to Queens.”

Allan shakes his head. “Nah, turn around up here. I wouldn’t take the fucking Midtown tunnel if our lives depended on it. The Williamsburg Bridge gets us on the BQE, which feeds right into Maspeth. That’s where the warehouse is.”

“Yes, sir,” Anderson says, slowing at the approaching intersection.

“Not here, dumbshit, this is a one-way,” Allan helpfully instructs. “The next one.”

“You know the city really well, sir,” Thompson offers, attempting to redeem himself after his earlier conversational misstep. “You grew up around here, right?”

“Born and raised,” Allan says, somewhat less gruffly. “Lived in a shithole walk-up in Hunt’s Point with my mom. Great view of Riker’s and the sewage treatment plant. When my mom died, I lived with a buddy of mine and his parents in Hell’s Kitchen, till we both joined the service.”

“What about your dad, sir?”

“My dad and his new family lived in a nice little townhouse in Forest Hills. Still do, as far as I know.”

“Shit,” Thompson says sympathetically. “Your dad sounds like kind of an asshole.”

“Don’t sell the old man short. He’s a spectacular asshole. Anderson, get off at exit 35-E to 54th. That turns into 56th and swings around into the warehouse district.”

Anderson does as he is told, and in a few minutes, they are entering the Maspeth industrial area.

“This place looks like something from a post-apocalyptic video game,” Byers observes, as they turn beneath the freeway overpass.

The broad, empty street they are now traversing has few operational streetlights, and is divided down the center by concrete jersey barriers, which are covered in graffiti and seem to be in a fairly advanced state of neglect. On both sides of the street loom steel cyclone fences with heavy chains on the gates, atop most of which concertina wire is wound. In the large lots behind the fences stand industrial buildings of all shapes and sizes, some dark and apparently abandoned, and some with lights on, flanked by fleets of semi-trucks, construction vehicles, and the like.

“Slow the fuck down,” Allan says to Anderson, who has been blithely exceeding the posted speed limit by around twenty miles per hour. “You want to get pulled over and have to explain what we’re doing to some city cop?”

“I don’t think there are any cops around, sir,” Anderson smirks, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “There’s no one around for miles, far as I can tell.”

“Slow down anyway, jackass,” Allan retorts. “And keep your eyes on the fucking road. You crash and this tank gets busted open, that’s it for us.”

“Hey, I got a question,” Langley says, craning his neck to look behind his seat. “If this thing’s so dangerous, why’s the containment unit made of glass? It seems like we’d want to keep it in something more sec—”

The end of Langley’s sentence is cut off by the thunderclap of impact, as something large and heavy strikes their vehicle on the right side. Captain Allan shouts to Anderson to hold the wheel steady, but it’s too late. He swerves and overcorrects, and his commander’s voice is lost amid the cacophony of shattering glass and the shriek of twisting metal, as the vehicle careens off a concrete barrier in the center of the road and flips onto its side. The momentum carries it all the way onto its roof, and it grinds to a halt upside down, fluid from ruptured lines hissing and smoking on the hot engine surfaces.

“Everyone alive?” Allan pants, as he struggles to unfasten his seatbelt. “Byers, Thompson, Langley, Anderson, status!”

There is no answer. He manages to get the restraint undone and tumbles headlong out of the seat. It’s dark and there is smoke pouring into the cab of the overturned vehicle, but he can see Langley hanging from the seat beside his, apparently unconscious. He finds the buckle and releases him, catching the heavy, limp body somewhat awkwardly in the cramped space.

He has just managed to shove him out through the shattered window, when a spray of automatic rifle fire explodes into the back of the vehicle. None of the bullets strike him, however, and in fact, they weren’t intended to. They were aimed higher. He looks up at the tank. It is still secured by its straps, but the thick, reinforced glass is cracked, and the black fluid inside is writhing frantically about. He turns his head just in time to shield his eyes as another volley is fired directly into the tank.

This time, the glass shatters. He gives a start as an icy, semi-gelatinous mass strikes the side of his face with a wet slap. In a split second, it has fully enveloped his head. If he could breathe, he’d almost be inclined to laugh. It feels as if he’s being swallowed alive by a wildly oversized Jello salad. He reflects on the absurdity of the sensation as his vision goes black.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey, Winter,” Clint says, as Bucky strolls into the security office, having just concluded his nightly visit to Josef. “I’ve been wondering something. Why can Josef understand English but not speak it?”

“I dunno, I’m not a troll scientist,” Bucky shrugs. “I didn’t even know he understood English till I started speaking it to him here. We always spoke Russian at Hydra.”

“Huh. Weird,” Clint says, gazing idly at the monitor, where Josef is visible curled up on the floor of his cell. “It’s cool how you can always get him to calm down and go to sleep. He seems to like you a lot.”

“I was the only one there who wasn’t terrified of him or cruel to him. His memory of me is all him knocking me down and holding me still when I was out of control. But he only did those things because the old man told him to.”

“Why’d the old man have a troll around in the first place?”

“Same reason he had any of us around. He was using power that wasn’t his to carry out his psychotic schemes. Josef was actually loyal to him, though. I don’t know how, but whatever he did, he got Josef to imprint on him as a sort of father figure. He’s pretty rattled over seeing Venom eat him.”

“Yeah, well I would be, too and I didn’t even like the old man. That’s fucking gruesome.”

“He could’ve done worse. He could’ve left him alive and let me get my hands on him.”

“Wow, you’re ice cold,” Clint says, with a mock shudder. “No wonder Hydra called you Winter.”

“Hydra didn’t give me that name.”

“No?”

“No. The old duke called me Winter. I don’t even remember why anymore. It was a long time ago.”

“Four-hundred years doesn’t seem that long to me, but I don’t experience time the same way you humans do.”

“Right. I always forget you’re not a human hybrid like the rest of us.”

“Not a bit,” Clint grins. “I just look like one of you.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Don’t know. I awoke when this land was young. Before roads were carved across its open spaces, and cities grew up higher than the trees. Back then, I could fly for days and never see a human at all.”

“You were here before humans?”

“No, but there were a lot fewer then, living in small communal settlements or migratory tribes. I remember the first time I saw them. I had no idea what they were. I called to one of my elder brothers to show him these strange creatures I’d discovered. He thought it was pretty funny that I’d never seen them before. He told me they multiplied like rabbits, and there would be more and more of them until they covered every part of this world.

I asked if they were animals, then. He said they were lesser children of the great spirit, somewhere between us and animals. They had flesh bodies, like animals, but they also had spoken language, like we did, and there were even some wise ones among them who could understand our speech. I was fascinated, so I began seeking them out and watching them.

Eventually, some of them noticed me, and started arranging interesting objects and burning pleasant smelling herbs to attract me. I learned that if I revealed myself to them, they would speak to me respectfully and ask for my help. I decided I liked these humans, and I made a habit of doing little favors for them, like granting them sharper vision, or increased speed and endurance before a hunt.

They seemed to regard these things as great gifts, and they made songs for me and left me dried meat and fruit, and charms made of dyed porcupine quills and hide. I always took the food, but I couldn’t really wear the charms. I appreciated them, though, and they were beautiful to look at, so I’d hang them high up in the trees, so other spirits could see and enjoy them, too.

Then I saw that the humans had taken to making camps near where I’d hung the charms, and using the sites for gatherings with singing and dancing. Sometimes, I’d come to watch and listen, and when they saw me, they’d bring all kinds of delicious things to eat and put them below wherever I was perched.”

“You came to their gatherings in your hawk form and they gave you treats?” Bucky says, beside himself with mirth. “Oh my god, that’s adorable!”

“I mean, I am pretty adorable, but it was because I didn’t know I could manifest as a human yet.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“The first time I took human form, it was for a woman, because why else? Just at sunrise one morning, I was flying over one of their encampments, and I heard this amazingly lovely voice singing a greeting to the morning star. I flew lower to investigate and saw that it was a girl, still wearing blue paint from her coming of age ceremony.

She was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. I was completely enchanted by her. It almost broke my heart when she stopped singing and went back to camp to go about her daily work. For the rest of the day and all night, I could think about nothing but that voice, like it got into my head and worked its way into my soul.

I came back the next day hoping to find her singing again, and she was there. So, every morning at dawn, I flew to the encampment and perched high up in the trees to listen. That went on for a month or so. Then one day, when she was finished with her song, she stood up as tall as she could, squared her little brown shoulders and said, ‘I know you are listening, Čhetáŋ. If you like my singing, why don’t you come and offer me something in return, as is proper.’

She was right about that being the proper thing to do, and I was dying to be closer to her anyway, so I flew down. When I landed, I found I had a human body. I was like a man of her people, but taller and more beautiful, since the form came from the idealized picture I had in my head. She didn’t run away screaming, so I asked her then and there to be my wife.”

“Holy shit,” Bucky laughs. “I would never have pinned you for an impulsive romantic. What did she say?”

“She was afraid at first, since she knew what I was, but the elders considered it a divine blessing to have one of their tribe chosen for such a union. I guess they didn’t realize an earth spirit can be just as much of a lovestruck fool as any mortal man. I didn’t do it to confer some favor upon them, I was just in love with her.

I told her that privately, because I didn’t want her to marry me because of some weird social or religious pressure. Apparently that was the right thing to say. She gave me a lock of her hair, braided into a leather cuff, and promised to be mine.

I was absolutely over the moon. A few weeks later, we were married by the customs of her people, and a whole bunch of my spirit brothers came to watch, which the tribe was elated about. Her birth name was Macha, but I called her Dowanhowee, the singing voice, and that was the name she was wed under. She used it for the rest of her life.

Anyway, after we were married, they built us a lodge a little apart from the tribe, since we were apparently too sacred to live among the ordinary folks, but people visited us almost every day and treated her with reverence, as a wise woman and healer, which she was. We were absurdly, blissfully happy for many years. But she was human, and it was destined to end bitterly.”

“What happened?”

“She grew old and I didn’t. When her time came, I wasn’t ready. I begged her not to go. She told me there was no need to weep. That this was the right and natural order of things. She said our lives had been long and filled with joy, but she was ready walk on now, and I must let her go. I couldn’t do anything but watch her spirit set out on the great path.

She was at peace at the end, but I was…totally destroyed. Grief-stricken and angry, but most of all I felt betrayed. The fact that we could love them, and they could still die and leave us bereft, seemed like a cruel injustice. I was young and unfamiliar with death and loss, and I refused to reconcile myself to it.

I waited the two days while the women prepared her body, and at the death ceremony, I placed her in the burial tree. After I burned our lodge to the ground—which was the custom of her people, not me being dramatic—I took my hawk form again and flew out of there like a whirlwind.

I wouldn’t go anywhere near humans for decades. I didn’t let myself give a shit about anyone till I met Sam. By that time, I was an infamous mercenary and all around go-to guy when you had a job too insane or impossible for anyone else. If you could afford me, which not many people could.”

“Wow,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “I wish I’d asked you about this stuff before. I had no idea your life had been so interesting.”

“It still is,” Clint grins. “You and Steve are making damn sure of that. Besides, with Sam, there’s never a dull moment.”

“You guys really are soul mates, aren’t you.”

“We are, and good thing, too. Cause if not, we’d have killed each other by now.”

“How’d you meet? Here at Shield?”

“No, we were married way before we joined. We met as rivals, actually, back in the 1960s. We’d taken the same job from opposing interests, so we were in direct competition. Neither of us cared that much about the money, though. We were just in it to win the game.”

“Ok, well, there’s no way you’re not telling me this story.”

“Are you sure? It’s kind of long.”

“I have literally nowhere else to be.”

“Alright, then. Like I said, the first time we met was on that job. Turns out we’d both booked rooms at the same hotel in Marrakesh, and we ran into each other in the bar. I knew who he was the minute I saw him. He knew who I was, too, but we did all that ‘I’m a cool spy’ runaround, giving fake names and talking like we were just two dudes in a bar, and we wound up having a great time. Then we tried to sabotage each other’s missions.”

“How?”

“I was going to slash the tires on his jeep, but when I got out there, I saw he’d beat me to it. He had slashed the tires on _my_ jeep, and was already gone. Carrying a shitload of weapons and equipment isn’t possible for me in my hawk form, so I left my gear and tracked him from the air. When he stopped to fuel up in Imintanoute, I knocked his ass out and left him tied up with a note to the local authorities saying he was a wanted smuggler, then I took off with his jeep.”

“You asshole,” Bucky laughs. “Did he get arrested?”

“Fuck no, he got free and came after me. He finally caught up to me in Agadir, and acted like he wanted a truce. He said he had a way we could work together and get more money out of the deal. Very naively, I said ok, tell me your plan.

The second that motherfucker gets close enough, he fucking throws bone ash all over me, so I can’t transform or fly. Then he knocks me out and leaves me tied up with my own fucking note stuck to me. Luckily, there were some hawks in the area, and they set me loose and let me know where he was headed.”

“You mean other hawk spirits?”

“Regular hawks. I can talk to all bird species and some other animals. Birds of prey are the most useful and the most inclined to want to get involved, except crows and ravens. They’re smart as shit and they’re always down to help pull pranks or create general mischief.

So, as he was driving up through the Atlas mountains, I called up a huge fucking flock of crows and had them dive-bomb his jeep till his windshield was just plastered with bird shit.

He pulled off the road to try and scrape it off with some newspaper, and all the while the crows are swooping him. You know, not doing anything to hurt him, just flapping their wings in his face and pulling his hair and stuff, and he’s trying to swat them away with this newspaper—it was so goddamn funny, I swear I almost died.”

“I can literally see this in my head, and it is the best thing,” Bucky interjects. “Then what happened?”

“By this point I was laughing so hard I was in tears, so I called them off and landed, and asked if he was having some car trouble. He was fucking pissed. I thought he was gonna try to strangle me. Then he turns around and looks at the shit-covered jeep, then back at me, then he just bursts out laughing.

That was the moment I fell in love with him. That smile and that laugh…I was a goner. We shook hands and properly introduced ourselves as Hawkeye and Falcon, then I helped him clean off the bird shit and rode with him into Tiznet.

When we got there, he told me he was throwing in the towel and I could have the contract. He said he wasn’t getting paid enough to deal with hawk spirits commanding battalions of birds armed with shit, and apparently experts at targeting.

I was really bummed out. I’d never had that much fun on a job before and I knew it’d be a drag without him, so I said if he wasn’t doing it, I wasn’t going to either. He said ‘Well, if neither of us are working now, what are we gonna do?’ I said, ‘I dunno, beach vacation in Morocco?’

Then we had that awkward thing where neither of us knew how to move it forward, so we just sat there staring at each other. Finally, he said, ‘So, uh…you want to make out?’ and I said, ‘Yes, obviously,’ and then he kissed me.

After a minute he started laughing again and he said, ‘You know, I’m still gonna have to kill you for that shit thing,’ and I said ‘Yeah, but I’ll die happy. You should’ve seen yourself trying to fight off an army of little birds with a rolled-up newspaper.’ And…the rest is history. We got married a year later and we’ve been together ever since.”

“Did you guys start working together then, too?”

“Yep. We were partners in work and life. Never took another job separately again.”

“That’s fucking amazing. I hope Steve and I are still as happy as you guys in sixty years.”

“You will be, trust me. I’ve known a lot of couples, and you two were made for each other. Just remember, he’s your best friend and a man you value and respect first, then your husband. If you keep that in mind, you won’t fall into the trap a lot people fall into, where they treat their spouse like a possession they’re entitled to, instead of the person they chose above all others, to spend every day of their lives loving.”

“That’s good advice, but we’re not married.”

“You may as well be,” Clint shrugs. “And I’m sure you will be, sooner or later.”

“Probably, though I can’t believe I’m saying it,” Bucky says, leaning back in his chair. “I always believed I was way too selfish to love someone that much, that I’d want to commit myself to one person for what is effectively forever. But, here we are. Honestly…I would marry him tomorrow, if he wanted me to. I’ve been around a long time, and this is the first thing I have ever had zero doubts about. Steve is my one.”

“I know exactly what you mean. Sam’s that for me. Don’t get me wrong, I was very much in love with Dowanhowee. I loved her with my whole heart. But it’s different with Sam. He understands me in a way she simply wasn’t capable of. He knows me better than I know myself. And he makes me something better than I could ever be without him.”

“I think that’s how you know the difference between love and big L, true love. You can love someone who’s not your soul mate and be happy with them, but it’ll never be that life-changing force of nature.”

“As someone who’s been married twice, to people I genuinely loved both times, I can confirm that. Sam has certainly been a force of nature.”

“Hey, this is way off topic, but you know what just occurred to me? Where did a hawk spirit get a name like Clint Barton?”

“Actually, it’s right on topic. I needed a name pronounceable by humans in order to get married to Sam, since marriage was a whole legal thing by then. I made a list of first names and surnames to put in different combinations and Clint Barton made him laugh the hardest, so I got myself a legal identity worked up under that name.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You chose your name based on it being hilarious to Sam?”

“Yep. I told you. Soul mates.”

“Apparently. So, what’s your real name?”

“I just said it’s not pronounceable by humans,” Clint laughs. “Hawkeye is a pretty close translation, though. So, really, my code name is closer to my real name than my legal name.”

“Wow, that sentence was a roller-coaster. I’m dizzy.”

“Who’s making who dizzy?” Sam cuts in, as he enters the security office at that moment. “Should I pretend to be jealous?”

“Your husband was telling me how he got his name,” Bucky explains. “Then he did some linguistic gymnastics and confused me.”

“Clint fucking Barton,” Sam says, laughing delightedly as he pronounces the name. “Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? It sounds like an old-timey cowboy with digestive issues.”

“Love you too, babe,” Clint says, with a jaunty wink at his other half.

“What about your name, bird?” Bucky asks. “There’s no way you were born Sam Wilson.”

“No, I was not, and no, I will not tell you how I landed on Sam Wilson right now, because I came in here with important work shit to talk about. My buddy got back to me. He says the guy he knows picked up some talk over his police scanner the night Allan took Venom, and he thinks it’s our guys. Wrecked SUV with government registration, four injured, one dead at the scene.”

“That has to be them,” Bucky says, jumping to his feet. “Where are they?”

“The wreck was out by a warehouse in Queens. Injured were transported to Queens General, and the DOA is on ice at the ME’s office.”

“We have to get in to see the four injured. No way a car wreck killed Allan.”

“That’s the thing. According to chatter my guy picked up, the body was missing an important identifying appendage. It was decapitated and, uh…the head was not found at the scene.”

“Fuck. It could be him, then. And if Venom was still with them when the cops showed up, someone would’ve said something about it. So, maybe he escaped.”

“Maybe, or maybe they made the exchange with their buyer before it happened, and the head thing was an unfortunate and very gross result of the crash.”

“Either way, we have to question them,” Clint says. “And we need a wolf. We don’t have time for bullshit.”

“I’m texting Steve, now,” Bucky says, as he taps the screen of his new phone. “He’s out patrolling with Thor and the wolves, but he can get here fast.”

“That’s great, but how are we gonna get the whole goof troop into the hospital?” Sam asks. “I’m sure they’re at least under police protection, if not CIA by now.”

“Thrall, bird,” Bucky says, still looking at his phone. “I’m magic, remember? And we don’t need everyone, just me and Steve.”

“Seems like we just need Steve, in that case,” Sam counters.

“No, we need me because if there’s any chance Venom is hiding out in one of them, I’ll be able to tell. Steve won’t.”

“Why will you be able to tell?”

“His kind can sense each other’s presence. He said I’d be able to do it too, even when he wasn’t with me, because I was his host for a while and we bonded.”

“You two…bonded?” Sam says, making a face.

“Not fully, since he has a host already, but if he’d kept living in me without us bonding to some degree, it would have killed me.”

“Is that why you were acting super weird and taking all those naps?” Clint asks. “Venom being in you was making you sick?”

“Yeah, it was. He waited because he wanted me to accept him and acknowledge his presence on my own. He hadn’t counted on how stubborn I am, though, and we were running out of time, so he forced the door open. That’s why I disappeared for a day and a half. He was sharing his memory with me and letting me acclimate to him. Also, he threw my phone off a roof, so it wasn’t like I could call.”

“Why the fuck did he do that?” Sam laughs.

“He said it was making irritating sounds. His kind have a thing about that. Certain frequencies can disrupt their cognitive functions and cause them pain.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Clint says. “Loki said Allan had some kind of device that sort of ripped them apart, and that it made a horrible sound.”

“That’d be pretty much the only thing that could do it. Otherwise, it’s nearly impossible to separate one of his kind from a host against their will. Steve’s on his way. He says about fifteen minutes.”

“Poor Josef,” Sam sighs, as his gaze happens to wander to the sleeping hulk of troll-man in the monitor. “He looks so sad cooped up in there all the time. I wish we could take him outside and let him move around a little.”

“We probably could, if he weren’t eight feet tall and likely to attract notice,” Bucky says. “He’d listen to me and be good.”

“No way Fury would let us, though, even if there was somewhere we could go without civilians seeing him,” Clint says. “He’s on the super fucking dangerous list.”

“So am I, and you guys let me run wild in New York city and sleep with one of your agents. Which is very irresponsible of you, come to think of it. I should probably report this to HR.”

“Hey, we’re not liable for Steve,” Sam says. “He’s technically just a contractor.”

“Yeah, but Tash is too, and she basically runs the place. Where is she, by the way? We could really use—”

“Speak of the Devil,” Tash’s smooth voice says beside Bucky’s ear, making him jump nearly out of his skin.

“God damn it!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up. “You scared the shit out of me! I will never get used to that.”

“I know,” she says, with a sly smile. “That’s pretty much the whole reason I do it. Also, way more convenient than walking. So, who needs me for what?”

“We think we’ve got Allan’s team, and one of them is dead,” Clint says. “Doesn’t look like Venom was with them.”

“I hope it’s Allan who’s dead and Venom escaped. That’d make things a lot simpler with the CIA. Do the cops have an ID on the body?”

“No, cause it was decapitated and the head wasn’t found,” Sam answers. “I’m sure the ME knows by now, but they don’t say that kind of shit over the radio, so we’ll have to send someone over there.”

“I can go. Which ME’s office?”

“Jamaica Hills.”

“I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Meet us at Queens General. We’re going to question the other four.”

“Got it. Later, babies.”

“Does it creep anyone else out how cheerful she is about going to ID a headless corpse?” Sam asks, after Tash vanishes.

“Nope,” Bucky says.

“Not really,” Clint says, at the same time.

“Of course not. I work with a bunch of fucking weirdos.”

“Well, you married one of us, so it looks like you’re stuck, angel-cake. Come here and give me a kiss.”

“Not a chance. You know the rules. You call me angel-cake, no kisses for an hour.”

“Oh my god, can you guys be disgusting somewhere else?” Bucky says, with a grimace. “I’m gonna puke if I have to hear any more of this.”

“Deal with it, Dorkula,” Sam retorts, immediately going to plant the previously denied kiss on his husband’s lips.

“Yeah, deal with it, Dorkula,” Clint chimes in, hooking an arm about Sam’s waist. “He’s my husband. We’re in love.”

 

 

 

 

 


	37. Chapter 37

 

 

 

 

 

“What, Steve,” Bucky says.

“What, what?” Steve asks innocently.

“You know what. What’s that big, stupid grin for?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just…you’re really cute.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky sighs. “Listen, I didn’t forget I couldn’t go out in the daytime, I was just eager to get things moving now that we’ve had a break and I may have…gotten a little ahead of myself.”

“No, I know,” Steve says, stifling a grin. “And I think it’s great that you’re so excited about work for once. I just think it’d be easier to question them if you were in one piece, instead of a billion tiny ash particles. That might freak them out.”

“Wow, you’re funny today,” Bucky says wryly. “You proud of yourself?”

“I am, thank you,” Steve chirps, tossing his ball up and catching it.

“It’s the stubble. You’re too sexy now. I’ve created a monster.”

“I was already a monster, Buck. And I was already sexy.”

“Yeah, but now you’re nuclear powered. Like Mechagodzilla.”

Steve frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t think that’s how Mechagodzilla worked.”

“You don’t—wait, how do you even know what that is? Weren’t you asleep for most of the twentieth century?”

“Yeah, but I educated myself on important art and culture once I woke up.”

“And that included the Godzilla movies.”

“Of course, I’m not a philistine. What’s that look for?”

“I didn’t know you even knew the word philistine,” Bucky says, eyeing him suspiciously. “I still think it’s the stubble.”

“You think my facial hair saw the Godzilla movies and told me about them?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past it, at this point. For all I know, it was the stubble controlling you all along and your body is just a big mechanical suit it’s been wearing.”

“That actually is how Mechagodzilla worked. And now that I think of it, he was nuclear powered. So, you were right.”

“Oh, don’t try to sweet-talk me now, Mechasteve,” Bucky retorts. “I’ve uncovered your evil plot. The jig is up.”

Steve cocks his head to one side. “My evil plot to know about sci-fi movie monsters?”

“I mean, you’re just stubble in a man-suit. It makes sense that you’re not very good at evil plots.”

“I think you’re the one who’s not good at evil plots, Buck. You did make all of this up based on your unreasonable reaction to my facial hair.”

“Unreasonable? Please,” Bucky snorts. “That dingbat at the coffee shop tripped all over herself ogling you just now.”

“Yeah, but that happens all the time,” Steve grins.

“I know it does. I’m gonna have to go around breaking kneecaps one of these days.”

“No, Buck, we talked about this. You can’t do bodily harm to everyone who looks at me.”

“I know. Because you won’t let me.”

“Exactly,” Steve laughs, pulling him in for a kiss. “Just be good until we get to the hospital, ok?”

“You know there’s little to no chance of that, right?”

“Yeah, but I dare to dream. Oop, hang on a sec,” Steve says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He taps the screen and then frowns.

“What’s going on?” Bucky asks.

“It’s Josephine. There’s something wrong with Sharon. I have to go right now. Can you handle questioning the CIA guys on your own?”

“Of course I can, but what’s wrong with her? Is she going to be ok?”

“I don’t know. Jo just said it’s urgent and she needs me. Hey, Agent Franklin, can you pull over up here, please? I need to get out.”

“Sure thing, sir,” the ever-accommodating agent replies cheerfully.

“Sorry about this, Buck,” Steve says, as he climbs out of the vehicle. “I’ll call you as soon as I find out more. Love you.”

“Ok,” Bucky says. “Love you, too.”

Steve presses a kiss to his lips, then darts off into the bustle of the city. Bucky doesn’t bother looking after him as the vehicle pulls back out into the road. He’s blocks away by now.

The scene at the hospital is very much what Bucky expected. A harried triage nurse at the front desk is attempting to talk to an elderly man over the commotion of the packed waiting room, and there are people seated everywhere in varying states of ill health, and stinking like a battery farm. Bucky stops breathing immediately and hurries to the stairwell.

It takes him a few seconds to ascend to the fifth floor, where a gaggle of CIA men in navy-blue windbreakers are standing around looking official. He walks past three or four of them, directly into the room containing two of the crash survivors. Neither one is Allan, and both are asleep or still unconscious. The next room yields the same result.

This was what he expected, based on Tash’s report from the ME’s office, but he can’t make himself feel settled. Something about this seemingly straightforward resolution is striking a hollow note. Something off. Something not quite right. As he mulls over the situation, he stands gazing idly at one of the men—this one with a swollen, purple-black eye socket and bandages wrapped around his head.

He has yet to come to any satisfactory conclusion, when he realizes with a start that the man’s good eye is looking back at him. Bucky is unsure whether he’d been awake the entire time, or has woken to find himself thus observed, but that hardly matters. He holds the man’s gaze and waits for him to speak first. A simple tactic that works surprisingly well as far as establishing dominance in an interchange.

Several moments elapse in silence. Then several more. Bucky is beginning to become irritated, when it occurs to him that this man is not speaking because he is petrified with terror. The smile this realization produces on the vampire’s lips does not appear to lessen the man’s distress to any significant degree.

In truth, Bucky had only smiled because it has been a long time since he has interacted with a human in the wild who knows what he is, and he’d been surprised by the abject fear he’d inspired. To this helpless, battered man, however, it must seem to be intended menacingly.

“Please,” the man says in a weak rasp, as Bucky steps toward the bed. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Why do you humans always beg?” the vampire says softly. “By the time we’ve got you in a position to know what we are, we’ve nearly always made our decision already.”

He lays an icy, stone-hard hand on the warm and fragile human’s sternum. He can feel the man’s heart pounding against his ribcage, and his chest rising and falling with rapid, panicked breaths. His fangs lengthen in his mouth, aching to pierce flesh, sever arteries, release the hot blood flowing in these mortal veins and swallow it to slake the demon’s insatiable thirst.

But a thousand oceans could not quench this thirst. A river of blood would not stop the lust screaming in every fiber of his being for more. More blood, more life, more warmth. He could drain the blood of every living creature in this world and it would not yet be enough.

Such is the nature of the curse. To continue eternally in a mockery of life, and to spend every moment in torment and want. A shadow. A wraith. Cast out of the light and made to wander the dark and hollow wastes. To prey upon god’s children, whose souls depart to join the holy host, and look down in forgiveness and pity upon the halfbreed children of Satan. But his mind is wandering.

With an effort, he turns his attention back to the terrified human, upon the edge of whose hospital bed he is sitting, contemplating the curse of immortality. He draws a slow breath. As he exhales, his thrall washes over the man like an inundating wave. The ragged heartbeats slow and steady, and the gasping breaths become calm and regular.

“That’s better, isn’t it,” Bucky hums, drawing a lazy circle on the man’s hospital gown with the tip of his forefinger.

“I…I don’t know,” the man says thickly. “What are you gonna do to me?”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Lieutenant Anderson. Not unless I have to. There are some things I want to know, and you’re going to tell me.”

“Ok,” Lt. Anderson sighs, letting his good eye droop shut.

“The wreck. Tell me what happened.”

“I was driving us to the extraction point. Something hit us and the truck flipped. That’s all I remember.”

“The extraction point?”

“Some warehouse in Maspeth. XOF Logistics. It’s a CIA front.”

“And you still had the weapon with you?”

“Of course we did. That was the whole reason for the extraction.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. So that’s the answer, after all. No buyer, no exchange. Allan really had been taking Venom back to the CIA. And yet it still doesn’t feel like the truth. Not that the man is lying. Under the effect of Bucky’s thrall and with his borrowed wolf senses, getting even a small lie past him would be nearly impossible. It’s just that there’s something missing. Something this man doesn’t know. Or doesn’t know he knows.

“Captain Allan communicated with your people and set up the extraction, correct?” Bucky asks.

“Well, yeah, he’s the commander.” Lt. Anderson says, then his face falls. “I mean…he was.”

“When you say something hit you, you mean another vehicle?”

“Yeah. Came out of nowhere and plowed right into the side of the truck.”

“What kind of vehicle?”

“It was like…a big, black van. Matte paint, no chrome. Pretty much invisible in the dark. But it had to be tricked out with some serious hardware to take out our armored SUV. That thing is built like a tank.”

“You didn’t happen to see the driver, did you?”

Anderson makes an attempt at shaking his head, and visibly regrets it.

“No, I didn’t see,” he says, wincing with pain. “Happened too fast. It hit us and then we were rolling and I blacked out.”

“You were still unconscious when the police arrived.”

“Yeah.”

“But you and your three teammates were found thirty feet away from the vehicle, lying side-by-side, as if you’d lined yourselves up.”

“We were?” Anderson says, in genuine astonishment. “One of the other guys must’ve pulled us out, then. But…they’re banged up worse than me, and I’ve got two broken legs.”

“So, someone else did.”

“I guess, but there was no one around for miles. That’s an industrial area with no foot traffic.”

“Correct. No witnesses were on scene, either, and the men working in the shipping warehouse closest to the wreck weren’t aware of it till the police showed up. But someone pulled you out of the burning vehicle and someone called 9-1-1. If it wasn’t one of you, who was it? Batman?”

“I—I really don’t know,” Anderson says, now utterly bewildered.

“Maybe whoever attacked your vehicle also pulled you out.”

“That’s—no. No way. Who attacks a truck full of armed soldiers and then pulls them all out of the wreckage?”

“Someone who had a goal that didn’t include killing you.”

“But they killed the commander. Why’d they kill him and not us?”

As the young man says this, his voice trembles and a tear rolls down his bruised cheek. Bucky swallows a pang of sympathy for his misery and presses on.

“Your commander’s body was difficult for the medical examiner to identify. His head was not recovered, as you know, but his fingerprints didn’t match any record in AFIS, or in Interpol’s databases.”

Anderson does not appear troubled, or even surprised by this revelation. “No, they wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well, when you join the PRIRD, your military records are sealed and you operate under a cover identity. None of us know each other’s real names or anything.”

“So that’s why there were no matches, but the minute they sent out a ping for Allan’s prints, the CIA showed up and IDed him,” Bucky says, half to himself.

“Yeah, that sounds right,” Anderson confirms.

“Did Allan ever talk to you about anything personal? Anything that might be a clue to his real identity?”

“Well, the CIA knows. It’s not like he’s a John Doe or anything.”

“I’m not asking about the CIA, I’m asking if he said anything to you.”

“Oh. Um. Well, I know he was from New York. I mean, there’s no hiding that accent. He, uh…he did say his mom died when he was a kid. His dad remarried but they don’t talk. He said he lived with a buddy and his parents in Hell’s Kitchen till he joined the service.”

“Some of that might even be true. I can’t imagine how he’d have kept his training hidden from his friend’s family, though.”

“Training, sir?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, his training,” Bucky says patiently. “Demon hunters are rigorously trained by the militant wing of the Catholic Church until they’re eighteen years old.”

The areas of Anderson’s face that are visible between the purple bruises go ash-grey, and he swallows hard.

“What are you saying?” he falters. “The commander was one of those—those religious freaks?”

“I wouldn’t call him a freak, but yeah. Are you saying you didn’t know?”

“Fuck no, I didn’t know. We were all supposed to be human. Everyone on the task force. If I’d known he wasn’t, I’d have…I don’t know, resigned or something.”

Bucky stares at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” Anderson says, with a shudder. “Makes me sick to think I was working with one of those—”

“Listen to me, Lieutenant,” Bucky interrupts. “I can’t be held responsible for what I’ll do if I have to hear you say the word ‘freaks’ again, so I advise you to shut your fucking mouth. Your bigotry notwithstanding, you should know that a demon hunter is one-hundred percent human. The only difference is that they are divinely appointed to hunt down and destroy creatures of the darkness, and they are granted the power to do so. Your commander may have been a fucking asshole, but he was better than you, stronger than you, and chosen personally by god to do the job you blundered into because you’re too stupid for anything else, and thus expendable.”

“I’m sorry, ok?” Anderson says, half defensively and half from genuine fear of provoking this vampire further. “I didn’t mean—wait, why are you in such a huff to defend the commander? He hunted and killed vamps, just like the rest of us. Way more, if he’s really a demon hunter like you said. I mean if he was. I keep forgetting he’s gone. Fuck, and I just spoke ill of the dead. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“You really are,” Bucky says helpfully. “But if it makes you feel any better, I’m beginning to have my doubts regarding your commander’s actual degree of deadness. In that I don’t believe he’s dead at all.”

“But, I mean…they have his body,” Anderson frowns. “Our own forensics guys came to ID him and everything. They say it’s him.”

“Lieutenant, what’s more likely? That an armed van attacked your vehicle, then the angel of mercy who almost killed you all had a change of heart and pulled you out of the flaming wreckage, then called for help before vanishing into the night? Or that your verifiably superhuman commander saved your lives, after he orchestrated the attack in order to get his hands on the weapon, and the CIA is lying to cover their asses?”

“Ok, well, when you say it that way, the second one sounds more likely,” Anderson retorts. “But if the commander set it all up to steal the weapon, whose body is chilling out in the morgue?”

“I don’t know. It’s immaterial to me. All that matters is finding Allan and the weapon.”

“Shield is going after the weapon?”

“No, I am going after the weapon. Shield is welcome to come with me if they feel inclined to do so.”

“I’m gonna have to report all this, sir. If the commander’s a criminal, I can’t just let it go.”

“I think you’ll find it surprisingly easy to let go, Lieutenant,” Bucky says, rising to his feet. “I wish I could say it’s been pleasant chatting with you, but I don’t like you very much. Oh, and you won’t remember any of this, so have a nice life. I hope everything works out the way you hoped and dreamed.”

Anderson opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it, blinking confusedly about the darkened hospital room. He could’ve sworn he heard someone say his name, but the only other person in here is Langley, and he’s unconscious with ventilator tube in his mouth.

It must’ve been a weird dream from whatever drugs they’ve been pumping into his IV. Fuck, his head is throbbing like it got kicked by a horse. At least he still has a head, though. Not like poor Captain Allan.

A sudden upwelling of grief for his former commander turns his stomach, and he squeezes his unswollen eye shut. Hopefully the drugs’ll kick in soon and put him back to sleep. Can’t have the nurse coming in and seeing him crying like a stupid baby over his dead boss.

Bucky bypasses the trek back down through the hospital and dissipates into black vapor, flowing out through an accommodating window. He has Steve’s wolf senses and Allan’s scent, from their brief interchange at the airport. All he needs to make one final confirmation.

The Jamaica Hills ME’s office is closed for the night, and thus dark and locked up. This would present an obstacle to a human, but getting inside is laughably simple for a vampire. He can hear and smell the single night watchman, who is easily avoided as he streams silently along the wall, a blacker shadow among shadows.

He locates the cold storage area by scent, where he rematerializes and quickly finds the correct drawer. The thing slides open with a much louder creak than he’d have preferred, revealing a heavy, black body-bag. He unzips it briefly, but he already has his answer.

Even over the acrid stench of sanitization chemicals, he can read the scent like a book. It’s not even close. Whoever this is unlucky dead man was, he did not answer to the name of Captain Charles Allan.

 

 

 

 

 

“They got the message,” Curtis says to his friend—a rough looking man in his late thirties, with dark hair worn in a high-and-tight, Marines-style cut—as he steps back into the trailer. “They’re probably on their way over to Queens General now.”

“Good,” his friend replies, in a gruff, gravelly monotone, keeping his eyes on the automatic rifle he is cleaning.

“Which means they’re gonna question the survivors from the wreck,” Curtis persists.

“Yep,” his friend says, still not looking up.

“So…I guess you don’t want to tell me what happened to the front of your van.”

“Nope.”

“Ok, have it your way. I just hope you remember all that shit we talked about. You know, how if we’re gonna do this, we gotta be on the same page.”

“I know, Curt,” his friend says, setting the rifle on the table and looking up at him. “But I’d rather keep you out of this one. I don’t want to put you in a position to lie to your friend unless I absolutely have to.”

“God damn it, Frank,” Curtis sighs, as he seats himself on the tattered sofa. “These people are not the kind you want to fuck with. I’m telling you, they’re way out of your league.”

“That’s why I didn’t want you involved. If you don’t know anything, it can’t come back on you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s easy to say when—what the fuck was that?” Curtis hisses, jumping to his feet and drawing his sidearm. “There’s someone here. In the bedroom.”

“I know there is,” Frank says calmly. “Put your fuckin’ piece away before you shoot me.”

Curtis relaxes somewhat and slides the gun back into its holster beneath his jacket. “You could’ve let me know you had someone here. Damn near gave me a heart attack. Who is it?”

“Uh…a friend,” Frank says stiffly.

“You don’t have any friends, Frank,” Curtis smirks, then he raises his eyebrows and lowers his voice. “Wait a minute, is it a woman? Did you actually bring a woman home?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Frank says, gesturing to their general surroundings. “What the fuck kind of woman am I gonna bring to a beat-ass trailer in a junkyard?”

“Hey, I don’t know what you’re into,” Curtis shrugs. “I don’t judge.”

“Like fuck you don’t. I wouldn’t invite some woman here, anyway. How stupid do you think I am?”

At that moment, the bedroom door creaks open. Curtis turns to see a man staggering out, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He is over six feet tall and built like a championship boxer, wearing black jeans and a tight, black t-shirt that does little to conceal his muscular torso. His dark-blonde hair is neatly trimmed, but his jaw bears a good two days worth of scruff, and his eyes are bleary with sleep.

“Uh…hey,” the man says, stopping short and looking rather awkward. “You must be Curtis.”

“That’s right,” Curtis replies affably. “And you must be Sleeping Beauty.”

“Don’t be a fuckin’ prick,” Frank interjects. “Curtis, this is Eddie Brock. Eddie, Curtis Hoyle.”

“Pleased to meet you, Eddie,” Curtis says, extending a hand to shake that of Frank’s guest. “I didn’t mean to bust your balls, it’s just that Frank doesn’t entertain a lot of company.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Eddie says drily. “He’s living in this opulent palace with all the modern conveniences. The toilet even flushes.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining last night, princess,” Frank rejoins.

“That’s cause I wanted you to give me the bedroom,” Eddie grins. “Do I smell coffee?”

“Yeah, help yourself,” Frank says, jerking his chin toward the kitchen. “There’s a mug in the cupboard.”

As Eddie goes to procure the beverage, Curtis turns to Frank and raises his eyebrows questioningly. Frank makes a face and mouths “what?” at which Curtis lifts his hands in a gesture of mock capitulation. Frank rolls his eyes and returns to wiping down the housing on his rifle.

“You guys doin’ a little mime routine?” Eddie calls from the kitchen. “Don’t stop on my account, it was real cute.”

“Shut the fuck up, smartass,” Frank calls back. “And bring me some of that coffee. Curt, coffee?”

Curtis shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

“You sure?” Eddie coaxes, brandishing the pot. “It’s Folgers.”

“When you put it that way, absolutely not.”

Frank looks up to glare at them over the scope of his rifle. “What the fuck is everyone’s problem with my coffee?”

“No problem at all,” Eddie says, as he returns with two mugs, one of which he sets before Frank. “It’s great, if you happen to like burnt rat piss.”

“Yeah, well it’s free, shithead,” Frank grumbles, which makes Eddie laugh into his mug and narrowly avoid splattering hot coffee on himself.

“So, what brings you to New York, Eddie?” Curtis asks. “Come to see the sights?”

“You got me. I couldn’t resist the lure of the Big Apple,” Eddie says, in his obvious Bronx twang. “Statue of Liberty, Times Square, this shithole junkyard Frank’s living in…you know, all the big tourist attractions.”

“Hey, if you’d seen my old place you wouldn’t be so uppity about the trailer,” Frank defends.

“Oh yeah?” Eddie asks, squinting around. “What was it, a cardboard box in an alley?”

“Pretty much, only with more rats and roaches.”

“You have to pay extra for those, or they included in the rent?”

“Shut up and drink your rat piss, you mouthy bitch,” Frank says, with a smirk.

“Well, as entertaining as it is to watch you two flirt, I have to get to work,” Curtis cuts in. “Eddie, I’d say try and keep Frank out of trouble, but I’ve got a feeling you’re more of the getting _into_ trouble type.”

“See? I told you, Curtis is sharp as a tack,” Frank says to Eddie. “He’s known you five minutes and he’s already got you all figured out.”

“Yep, you were right,” Eddie smiles, which softens and brightens his rather hard, hazel-blue eyes. “It was good to meet you, Curtis. And thanks for taking care of this moron. He’d probably be dead for real by now if it wasn’t for you.”

“He sure as shit would, but don’t hold that against me,” Curtis laughs, as he heads for the door. “See you guys later. And seriously, stay out of trouble.”

“Later, Curt,” Frank calls after him.

Eddie waits till the door has shut behind him, then turns to Frank. “Does he know?”

Frank shakes his head. “Less he knows the better. I don’t want him mixed up in this shit.”

“He’s the one Shield contacted. Looks to me like he’s already mixed up in it.”

“Sam Wilson contacted him looking for me. He’s a friend of Curt’s from way back. He was with their unit in Afghanistan, teaching the corpsmen how to work with pararescue teams.”

“Pararescue,” Eddie snorts. “That what they were calling it?”

“I guess they thought it sounded more official than ‘we’ve got a guy with wings’,” Frank says, sipping his coffee, then making a distasteful grimace and setting it down. “You’d know better than me, anyway. You’re the one on spook detail.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Not anymore. I’m fuckin’ done. I was done a long time ago, I just got sidetracked on my way out.”

“You know the CIA’s gonna figure it out sooner or later and come looking for you.”

“Maybe, but as of now, they’ve got two problems off their hands. A commander they can’t trust and a weapon they can’t control. I think they might just decide to cut their losses. Even if they do come looking, it won’t matter. They can’t touch me. I doubt they could even find me.”

“What about Shield?”

“Shield is…that’s more complicated. Don’t you worry about Shield, though. You just stay off their radar. You’re not getting yourself killed for me.”

“You really think they’d kill me?” Frank asks doubtfully.

“I don’t know. I’m not so sure about them, anymore. They’re not what they look like from the outside. Except Captain Rogers. He’s pretty much everything everyone talked him up to be, as far as I can tell.”

“Come on, he can’t be that amazing anymore. What is he like, a hundred years old now?”

“Hundred and one in July. The fucking Fourth of July, if you can believe that shit. Only he doesn’t look a day over twenty-five and he hits like a Mack truck.”

“Christ, he hit you? And he’s alive?”

“I’m lucky _I’m_ alive. He didn’t really hit me, though. He threw me up against this wall in an interrogation room and pinned me. Damn near crushed my ribcage and he wasn’t even trying. I never felt power like that in my life.”

“You sound impressed.”

“I was. I am. I wish I hadn’t given him so many reasons to want me dead. He was my hero, you know? Ever since I found out about him and Howling Commandos, and what he did to all those Nazi fanatic fucks. That’s the way shit goes for me, though. Meet someone who really matters to me, make him hate me, spend the rest of my life wishing I’d done things different.”

“You were doing what you had to do,” Frank says flatly. “If he was in your position, he’d have done the same.”

“That’s the thing, I don’t think he would have. I think he’d have come out with it and trusted the people with the power to do the right thing. I’m just not built that way. I been fucked over too often and too hard to trust anyone anymore.”

“You mean except me.”

“Of course except you, asshole,” Eddie laughs. “You’re the only person I could’ve come to with this. The only person in the world I knew without a doubt could and would help me.”

“Ok, don’t get all mushy on me, Brock,” Frank says, leaning back in his chair. “I owed you one was all.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You and your folks took me in after ma died and treated me like family. I can never repay that debt.”

“And you know there’s no debts between family, so drop it. Speaking of which, how’s he doing? I thought I’d have seen or heard him by now.”

Eddie shakes his head and looks down into his coffee mug. “I wish I knew. He submerged pretty much the minute we made contact and he hasn’t come out. I can feel him, but he’s down deep. I hope that means he’s going through our memory.”

“Our?”

“Yeah, we shared a brain for years, so I got used to thinking and talking in terms of us, instead of just me. A lot of my memory is half his.”

“Right. I hope it helps.”

“I do too,” Eddie says, setting his mug down to rub his hands together anxiously. “He’s real fucked up, Frank. I don’t know what those Hydra fucks did to him, but he had no idea who I was. He touched me and I felt him go inside, but he was just…all rage and pain. He didn’t even try to talk to me.”

“I’m sorry, Eddie,” Frank says gravely. “I know how hard that must be.”

“I’ll survive,” Eddie says, with a valiant attempt at a smile. “I got him back now and that’s all that matters. Whatever it is, we can work through it together. Then we’ll hunt down every last one of those Hydra rats and make ‘em wish they’d gone down with the ship.”

“What about Rumlow?”

“Shield has to turn him over to the human authorities, sooner or later. I’ll find out where they send him and deal with him then.”

“Don’t do it too quick,” Frank says, with a curl of his lip. “He got good men killed for nothing. That fucking piece of shit deserves to suffer.”

“He’s got a lot to pay for. I’ll see that he does.”

“Good. What’s your plan, in the meantime?”

“I gotta stay in Shield’s blind spot till shit calms down, so…I don’t know. Maybe California?”

“Fuck me,” Frank laughs. “I never thought I’d see the day. You gonna get a surfboard and do it up right?”

“Yeah, catch me wearing those stupid shorts. Maybe I’ll get an earring, while I’m at it.”

“Well, listen, I know it’s not exactly the Plaza Hotel, but you’re welcome to crash here as long as you like. It’s been good having you around again. Usually I got no one to talk shit to but Curtis.”

Eddie pauses and looks away. “I…I know this goes without saying, but I’m sorry. You know. About everything. I wish I’d been—”

“No,” Frank cuts him off firmly, shaking his head. “Don’t even start down that road. It doesn’t lead anywhere good. What’s done is done. There’s nothing you could’ve done to change it.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me finish, jackass. I just wanted to say I know you’ve been through hell and I’m sorry you went through it alone. I’m here now, though. So anything you need, say the word. I’ve got your back.”

“I thought the plan was California.”

“Nah, I was just talkin’ outta my ass. This is home. Besides, can you imagine me in all that sun and sand? I’d be the one asshole dressed head to toe in black in a sea of pastel tank tops and blue jeans.”

“If you’re gonna stay and you’re looking for something to do, I might have a project or two on the burner.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Guns, heroin, sex trafficking, you name it. New York’s got enough scum to keep us busy into the next millennium. All human, too, so they’re out of Shield’s eyeline.”

“Human? Come on. That’s like shootin’ fish in a barrel.”

“Maybe that’s what you need right now,” Frank shrugs. “Give you something easy to sink your teeth into while you and V figure shit out.”

“I don’t know,” Eddie says reluctantly. “I haven’t done anything like that in a long time.”

“Look, I know you’re champing at the bit to take down the Hydra holdouts, but you gotta think about what’s best for V, too. It’d be smarter to wait till you guys are at a hundred percent. Help me get rid of a few druglords and gun runners, then go after the big game once you’ve got your sea legs back.”

Eddie leans back and crosses his arms, contemplating this. After a moment, he nods. “Yeah, ok. Let’s do it. Tell me what you got.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	38. Chapter 38

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey, Jo, what’s going on? Is Sharon ok?” Steve asks, embracing Josephine, then looking down into her face.

Outwardly, she appears cool and collected, as usual, but he can smell anxiety all over her.

“Well, I don’t want you to worry too much,” she replies cautiously. “She seems to be recovering very well. One teeny hiccup, however. She may have…a little bit…attacked a nurse.”

“She what?” Steve frowns. “What do you mean, what happened?”

“She’d just finished supper and the nurse was in taking her vitals, and she just sort of leapt upon the woman. I tried to pull her off, but she tossed me away. Then some orderlies and the security guard rushed in and…anyway, they’ve got her strapped down and sedated now.”

“I’m so sorry, Jo,” Steve says, pulling her into his arms again and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “That must’ve been awful.”

“You know me, I’ll be alright. But there’s something else, uncle Steve. Until the sedative kicked in, she was…growling. Like an animal. I’ve never seen anything like it. They say it’s likely some kind of neurological side-effect from the coma, but—”

“But you don’t believe it.”

“Not a bit of it. I’m a highly trained MI-6 operative, not some fragile flower, and she threw me like a doll. A coma doesn’t make a surgeon into a Kung-Fu master. You wouldn’t happen to have any idea what may have caused it, do you?”

“I think I do,” Steve admits. 

“I had a feeling. What is it?”

“Sharon’s coma was caused by something medical science is unequipped to deal with. A bite, from a supernatural creature. I had to save her and there was no other way to neutralize the venom, so I gave her my blood. I’m sorry. I should have told you before.”

Josephine’s pretty face goes pale. “But…uncle Steve, wouldn’t that—”

“No, I was careful about how much I gave her. But it does tend to make people who drink it kind of wolfy for a while. It has to be the reason she freaked out and was growling and stuff.”

“Thank god for that,” Josephine says, relaxing visibly. “I can’t say my cousin drinking your blood is the least disgusting thing to imagine, but I am terribly relieved it’s not something worse. How long will it last?”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never given my blood to a human. It lasts a few days for a vampire, so maybe around that long?”

“A vampire? You’re joking.”

“No. Why?”

“Oh, you know, just…fairytale monsters and all that. I’ve known they exist for a long time, but it’s still a bit odd hearing you talk of them so casually.”

“It’s not odd to me. I mean, that’s pretty much my day-to-day life. In fact, I—I live with a vampire. His name is Winter.”

“You’ve got a vampire flatmate?” Josephine laughs. “That must be loads of fun! Does he sleep in a coffin and everything?”

Steve flushes bright pink and looks down at his feet. “No, he uh…sleeps in a bed. With me.”

“Oh my god, uncle Steve, you’ve got a boyfriend!” Josephine exclaims delightedly. “You sly old dog, how could you not tell me!”

“Well, I was waiting to properly introduce you, but a bunch of stuff happened. I’d still like you to meet him, though. If you want to.”

“Of bloody course I want to meet him—pun thoroughly intended, you’re welcome—and you’re a villain for not bringing him to me instantly for official approval. How long have you been together? Is it serious?”

“We’re living together, Jo-jo,” Steve smirks. “Is that usually casual?”

“No, but I don’t know how you spooky-scaries do things. This is so exciting, tell me everything about him. Is he gorgeous? I bet he’s gorgeous. Does he have any sexy vampire friends?”

“Oh no you don’t, young lady,” Steve admonishes, pulling a stern face. “You’re not dating a bloodsucker on my watch. They’re only after one thing. Your blood.”

Josephine’s lips curl in a sly smile. “Who said anything about dating?”

“Josephine Margaret Carter!” Steve gasps. “I am shocked at you! I’m going to have to call your mother and let her know how you’ve been talking.”

“You’d better not, or I’ll tattle on you for…something. I’m sure you’ll slip up one of these days, and when you do, I’ll be there to catch you in the act.”

“Sure you will, Jo-jo,” Steve grins. Then his smile freezes on his face and he lifts his head sharply, listening.

“What is it?” Josephine asks, looking alarmed.

“Someone screamed. Up on the fifth floor,” he says quickly, before he is gone, leaving the stairwell door swinging shut behind him.

Josephine hurries to the elevator, which takes a moment to arrive, but will be more prudent than running up the stairs in these idiotic heels. When she arrives on Sharon’s floor, the place is in a tumult. Nurses are dashing to and fro, one is shouting to another to call the police, and patients are poking their heads out of their rooms to see what the fuss is about.

She bypasses the distracted staff and jogs to Sharon’s room, where she finds more nurses and the hospital security guard crowded around the window, which has been smashed out. Neither Sharon nor Steve are anywhere to be seen.

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to stay out of here,” the security guard says, stepping toward her. “There’s been an incident.”

“The occupant of this room is my next of kin,” Josephine says, standing her ground. “What the bloody hell happened in here?”

“We don’t know yet, ma’am,” he persists. “You’ll have to wait for—”

“That crazy bitch knocked me on my ass and jumped out the window, is what,” a nurse interrupts. “Broke right through it like the Kool-Aid man. Then some big jock dude came running in here and jumped out after her. Everyone’s lost their damn minds. Must be the full moon or something.”

“Damn it, uncle Steve,” Josephine mutters, digging out her cell phone as she turns and hurries back toward the stairwell.

She dials Steve on her way down the stairs, but gets no answer. There is no sign of him in the parking lot or on the street, either. She curses under her breath again and heads back inside, just as the NYPD patrol cars pull up.

 

 

 

 

Bucky sends a message to Tash, letting her know that the body at the ME’s office is not Captain Allan’s and that Steve has gone to see Sharon, then he puts his phone away and dissipates, ascending rapidly till he is about a hundred feet above street level.

He should probably go to Shield or to the hospital to check in with Steve, but he doesn’t want to do either of those things. He has hardly had a moment to himself since the Hydra business, and what he wants more than anything is some time alone to clear his head.

It’s not that he finds his mate’s constant presence tiresome or unwelcome. He loves being with Steve. But he has been a solitary creature for centuries, by habit and inclination, and he still finds himself craving the freedom and meditative silence of solitude from time to time.

Choosing to take advantage of this rare opportunity, he wafts languidly southwestward, in the general direction of his neighborhood, observing the city below through the strange, three-hundred-and-sixty degree vision that comes with his vapor form.

The revelation regarding Allan’s deception and likely possession of Venom seems to have alleviated much of his sense of unease surrounding the situation, which strikes him as odd. Rather than racing frantically to untangle the mystery and figure out how to find his friend, his mind is calm and his thoughts flow like…well, like he does. A stream of black mist, whirling smoothly through the balmy night air.

Once he is within the bounds of his own territory, he descends, resolidifying in the deep shadows beneath some trees to walk the rest of the way to his apartment. Or wherever he’s going. He doesn’t have much of an objective in mind, other than to have a stroll in the city that has been his home for the better part of two centuries.

He resists the compulsion to take a deep, nostalgic breath as he walks along down the street. He’s got Steve’s blood in him still and the stench will be nauseating. Not that it wouldn’t be anyway. It is New York in the summer, after all. The stink is as much of a tradition as Coney Island and traffic jams.

The last time he had a walk like this, Venom had been pestering him with questions the whole time. Not that he’d minded. In fact, he’d rather liked having the opinionated parasite around. He feels a sudden pang of homesickness for the disembodied voice who had been his collar, and more recently his friend.

In the brief time he’d been Venom’s temporary host, the two had formed a strong connection. They had suffered the same captivity and abuse by the same people, and they understood one another in a way not many other people could. Whatever Allan is doing with him, he’d better not be hurting him.

Allan, that fucking asshole. Clever, resourceful asshole though. Ballsy, too, to come into Shield and lie to all their faces, then strong-arm Steve into cooperating with him. He’d also immediately detected Bucky and Loki’s ruse and acted quickly and decisively, if rashly. His assault on Loki’s penthouse could have gone very wrong for him. It was either a tactical master stroke, or an act of desperation.

The more Bucky considers it, the more he leans toward the latter. Taken as a whole, Allan’s actions seem to add up to a man becoming increasingly reckless and desperate. He was the originator of a scheme to have his own vehicle attacked in order to escape with Venom, so he must have had no intention of going back to the CIA, either.

But it doesn’t make sense that he’d burn his connection to the most powerful agency in the US government just to sell a weapon to a third party. He’d be on the run from them forever. Unless he knows they won’t be able to find him. So…maybe Allan intends to keep Venom himself.

This doesn’t make sense, either. Venom can only hide a host, not a man who is keeping him in a cage. And what would Allan want with a weapon he could never use? That must be the answer. He must have some reason to believe Venom will stay with him willingly.

“Oh, shit,” Bucky says aloud, stopping dead in his tracks. “Allan _is_ Venom’s host.”

The moment the thought takes shape in his mind, he’s as sure of it as if Venom had identified the man himself. Allan’s desperation to find him, his erratic behavior, faking his death to disappear with him—it all fits. Of course, this could be a trail of assumptions leading him to a conclusion based on wishful thinking.

No. Fuck that. He knows when he’s on the right track, and this is it.

What now, though? He still has to find his friend and confirm his theory, and he has no idea how to do that. Venom’s nature makes him undetectable to any but his own kind, simply by virtue of what he is. Bucky has a feeling Allan knows how to disappear when he needs to, as well.

That reduces the chances of finding them to near zero, unless Venom wants to be found and can somehow convince Allan to allow it. Bucky has no reason to believe Venom would want to be found, anyway. If he’s right, and Venom has already got his host back, exposing himself would be a massive risk to take for no reason other than to assure his friend that he’s ok. Which is not something Bucky would do.

It is something Steve would do, though. Without a doubt. Stupid embodiment-of-goodness Steve. He smiles to himself as he strolls down the middle of a deserted street, thinking about his sweet, sunny-golden wolf. The little boy who saved his life, then grew up to be a man and saved it again. He loves Steve so much.

His blissful reverie is cut abruptly short by his demon’s senses shrieking a sudden alert at him. What the fuck now? He was happy doing what he was doing and doesn’t want to be bothered. Also, he’s in the middle of his own goddamn territory and there is no reason for another vampire to be skulking around here. What did they not get the memo?

The skin on the back of his neck prickles up as the vampire draws closer. Vampires. More than one. There are…ten…twenty of them, at least. God fucking damn it.

He stops and waits as they emerge from the shadows, forming a large circle with about twenty feet between them and him, as if they’re wary of getting too close. Young ones, all of them. Soft and warm and blood-hungry.

They know he is old and strong, which is why they brought so many. But they have sorely underestimated the Winter Soldier. Even if they’d brought twice this number, it would avail them little. He is standing within a circle of what are very soon to be twenty-odd piles of ash.

The leader of the rabble exposes herself immediately by stepping out from the group. She is a young, brash-mannered vampire in tattered skinny jeans and a leather jacket, with hot-pink streaks dyed in her short, shaggy black hair. She looks so much like a cliché of a rebellious tough-girl from modern films that Bucky is almost inclined to laugh.

“Winter,” she says, with all the bravado she can muster into her husky voice. “You know why we’re here.”

No answer. He maintains his seemingly relaxed posture, arms slack at his sides, eyes straight ahead.

“Ok, fine,” she says. “You don’t need to talk, you just need to listen. We know you’ve been draining humans without killing them. And guess what. The wolves must know, too, because they don’t seem to be afraid of you anymore. They’ve been running wild all over Brooklyn, and as far as we can tell, you’re not doing anything to get rid of them.”

Bucky spares her a glance, but still doesn’t make any reply. This seems to embolden her. She takes another step forward.

“The point is, you’re weak, Winter. You can’t control your territory. We have the right to challenge—whoa, what the fuck is that?”

Her sudden interjection is in reference to the seams between the plates in Bucky’s titanium and steel arm, which are beginning to glow a warning red. Some of the others mutter uneasily amongst themselves.

“It’s a tattoo,” Bucky says drily. “Go ahead and finish up your little speech, Kira. You obviously worked hard on it.”

The use of her right name seems to startle her, but she quickly recovers her composure and glares at him. “You old vamps think you’re so amazing. Well, we’re sick of you. Territory should belong to everyone, not a few assholes who go around bullying people into following your stupid, outdated rules, while you sit in your penthouses looking down on the commoners.”

“How very Marxist,” Bucky sneers. “Let me guess, someone gave you a copy of Das Kapital and it blew your mind.”

The girl doesn’t seem to have a response ready to hand, so he goes on.

“Listen, dumbshit, the rules are there to protect you, not us. You morons start running amok and slaughtering humans indiscriminately, they will get wise to you and they will hunt you down. The old ones like me, we’ll be fine. We’ve been at this long enough to know what we’re fucking doing. You will be obliterated and we won’t lift a finger to help you. So, why don’t you fuck back off to punk-rock preschool before I teach you a lesson about respecting your elders.”

“Oh, we’re so scared, old man,” the girl retorts, with a toss of her head. “There’s one of you and more than twenty of us. What do you think you’re gonna do?”

“I’m going to kill you all,” Bucky shrugs. “It won’t even be hard.”

The girl reaches up and rakes her fingers through her hair, in what is so obviously a prearranged signal to her comrades, Bucky actually laughs outright. As he does, several of the larger male ones advance into the circle, intending to lay hands on him.

To their immediate consternation, however, he is simply no longer there. As they stand blinking stupidly about, a black-bladed combat knife slices cleanly through the neck of one of these would-be assailants. Body and head tumble separately to the ground, where they immediately begin to smoke and corrode away into ash.

In the space of one or two heartbeats, two more bodies have joined the first, at which point, the others realize what is happening. Weapons come out, fangs are bared, and the rebels prepare to storm the winter palace.

Try as they might, however, they can’t seem to keep track of the elder vampire. Shouts erupt from all about, as their planned assault devolves into chaos. They are superhumanly fast and strong, but he moves like nothing they’ve ever seen. They can’t see him at all, in fact, till he appears from seemingly nowhere, reduces one of their allies to ash, and is gone before they can raise a hand in defense.

They had embarked upon this enterprise feeling assured of victory, but it is becoming swiftly clear that they are severely outmatched. The girl acting as the leader seems to be holding her nerve, but she has also realized that her calculations have gone wildly astray.

She can order her people to fall back now, or risk losing all of them. She wavers for a moment, then raises her two silver daggers above her head, signaling those left alive to group together in something of a defensive formation.

At this moment, the elder appears before them again. She darts forward like a blur, aiming her blades at the left side of his chest. Or rather, where his chest had been a fraction of a second ago, because he is suddenly behind her somehow.

Before she can react, a hand like a white-hot branding iron clamps down on the back of her neck. She gives a hoarse scream and tries to twist free, but its strength is inexorable, immovable, as if the earth itself has risen up and taken her in its grasp.

“Let me go!” she wails, clawing impotently at the metal arm. “Please! It’s burning!”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Bucky snarls in her ear. “Die like a warrior.”

To the credit of their courage, more than their wits, her last remaining allies rush in and take hold of their friend, in a mad attempt to tear her away from her captor. To their bewilderment, he simply releases her, causing them all to tumble backward onto the asphalt.

They scramble to their feet, staring at him, uncertain what to make of this. He stands regarding their leader with his fierce, green eyes, but makes no move toward her. They are unaware, as yet, that there is no mercy in the gesture. The killing blow has already been struck.

A few seconds pass in tense silence, then all at once, the girl’s companions leap back in horror and dismay. Her smooth, white flesh has begun to smolder and blacken, orange-gold embers crawling rapidly outward from the center of her chest, like paper that is being held over a candle flame.

The weapon of the Winter Soldier, painstakingly forged and carefully enchanted by the blood witch, is cruel and cunning, and requires only a touch to do its work. It has set fire to the very blood in her veins.

It is not a prolonged death. Before she can even cry out, she is gone. Turned to a pillar of ash before their eyes. For a brief moment, her form remains frozen in place, like a grotesque echo of the wife of Lot, who defied the almighty and dared to look back upon Sodom. Then the spell is broken. Her silver daggers clatter to the ground, and the ash that had been their leader scatters and flutters away in the evening breeze.

“Kira!” one of her companions howls. “You killed her, you bastard!”

“Oh, fuck you,” Bucky snorts. “She brought you assholes here to kill me. These are the consequences. Now get the fuck out of here before I deal with you the same way.”

The four, who are now all that remain of their company, stand hesitating, as if they are afraid he’ll leap upon them the moment their backs are turned.

“Go!” he barks. “No, don’t touch those fucking knives. They belong to me, now. And tell all your idiot friends what happens when you don’t mind your manners.”

Not daring to disobey, they turn and run like the devil is at their heels.

Bucky watches till they’re out of sight, then looks around. The bodies have conveniently taken care of themselves, as vampire bodies do, and other than the silver daggers at his feet, there is no sign that anything at all out of the ordinary has passed here tonight.

He picks up the weapons to inspect them. They are heavy for their size, but perfectly balanced in the hand. A matched pair, beautiful and obviously well-made. The effort of the smith, unfortunately for Kira, does not impart skill in their use to the wielder.

The blades are curved, like the Khanjar of the Ottoman Empire, and bear inlaid gold scrollwork near the ivory hilts. They’re not really his style, but they’re pretty to look at. For some reason, they remind him of the witch. Maybe she’ll like them.

He turns them in his hands, watching the light play off the blades for a moment, then tosses them into the air. They vanish—to wherever they go, he has no idea—ready to be summoned when he wants them again. This done, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and resumes his stroll.

What had he been thinking about before this stupid interruption? That’s right. Venom. And that asshole Allan, or whatever his real fucking name is. It sure would help to know it. The other CIA prick at the hospital had said he was from New York, and had lived in Hell’s Kitchen. If Bucky had a name he could certainly find some record of the man.

Or maybe…maybe he doesn’t need a name. Maybe what he needs is a priest.

His phone vibrates and he digs it out, expecting to find a message from Steve.

 **Loki:** Good evening, Winter. Are you busy?

 **Winter:** Yes.

 **Loki:** Delightful. If you’d like to meet Dr. Stephen Strange, he will be here in an hour.

 **Winter:** I thought he couldn’t see you till next month.

 **Loki:** Yes, well, he’s had an opening and I’m not about to refuse him. I thought you might like to speak to him about your place, but I suppose you can always make an appointment.

 **Winter:** Be there in ten.

 

 

 

The four beset young vampires run until the prickling feeling of the elder’s power fades, and they’re fairly sure he is not following. Reeling from the death of their leader and so many of their allies, they stagger to a stop in a dark alleyway, to regroup and decide what to do next.

“That motherfucker killed Kira,” Omar growls. “We have to do something!”

“We? There’s no ‘we’, Omar,” Celine retorts. “The gang is done. What Penny and I have to do is get the fuck out of town before we wind up like Kira and everyone else.”

“Let’s just get home,” Penelope says, casting her eyes about apprehensively. “It’s stupid to be anywhere near his turf right now. We’re sitting ducks out here.”

“I’m with Penny,” Germain puts in. “Let’s get somewhere safe, then we can talk.”

“If he were chasing us, we’d already be dead,” Celine replies tartly. “Use your fucking brain.”

“Guys, seriously,” Penelope urges. “I’ve got a really bad feeling. We need to keep moving.”

“Shh!” Omar hisses. “What the fuck was that?”

The four fall silent, listening in breathless anxiety, but there is nothing to be heard but the usual night sounds. Thumping music from a club a few blocks away, people shouting to each other, the occasional bray of a car’s horn. All part of the ever-present hum and bustle of life in the city that never sleeps.

“See? It’s nothing,” Celine says. “You’re being paranoid.”

“I swear to god I heard—” Omar breaks off as the sound recurs.

His companions hear it this time, too. A low growl, somewhere in the darkness behind the buildings nearby.

“It’s just a fucking wolf,” Celine sneers. “Ignore it. There’s no way it’s going to try and take on four of us at once. If so, we can handle one stupid skin changer.”

As stupid as wolves are, they are not stupid enough to attack when they are outnumbered, and this one is alone. As such, they stand waiting for a moment, expecting the scent to fade as the opportunistic pack-hunter passes along. Instead of fading, however, the rancid piss on tree-bark scent grows stronger.

There is another menacing growl, this time much closer. All four companions turn to face it, as a pair of fiery, amber-gold eyes appear in the darkness about ten yards down the alley.

“Fuck off, wolf!” Omar calls out irritably. “You don’t want to mess with us right now, trust me.”

“Oh Jesus,” Penelope breathes, grabbing hold of Celine’s arm, as the thing slinks noiselessly out of the shadows. “What the fuck kind of wolf is that?”

It is an enormous, snow-white tundra wolf, larger than any they have ever seen. Not as large as the idiotic rumors they’ve been hearing, about wolves the size of lions whose howls call lightning down from the sky and who can’t be killed by any weapon, but big enough to give them pause.

“Hey, we don’t want any trouble with you,” Celine says to it. “Why don’t you just go your way and we’ll go ours, and I won’t have to skin you alive.”

The wolf lowers its massive head and fixes its glowing eyes on her, the hair along its spine bristling up as it takes another menacing step toward the group.

“God damn it,” Celine sighs. She draws two long knives from her thigh sheaths and adopts her fighting stance. “Ok, bitch, let’s do this.”

With a snarl, the wolf leaps forward, closing the distance between them at a single bound, and slams into the vampire like a freight car, knocking her flat on her back. Celine rolls to the side, narrowly avoiding the fang-filled maw, which had almost caught her throat. As she does, she strikes at its flank with both knives. They turn on the wolf’s hide as if the thing is made of stone.

“No, Omar don’t!” she cries out, as her companion leaps upon its back with his own blade drawn.

But Omar has already raised his dagger, which he plunges downward with all his strength. The blade snaps off from the force of the blow and clinks against the bricks of a nearby wall. The wolf leaps to the side, knocking Omar off its back and catching Germain by the throat.

Penelope screams as its jaws snap closed. Crimson blood gushes out over its white fur as it shakes him hard, rending flesh, sinew, and bone. It tosses his body away like a ragdoll and turns on her, but Omar and Celine have somehow appeared in front of her.

Celine slashes at its face with one of her knives, aiming for the eyes, hoping to at least disorient it. Her blow glances off its hide and goes wild, and the wolf’s teeth tear into her arm. Omar jumps in and beats at its muzzle with both fists, trying to force it to release her.

While the wolf’s attention is thus engaged, Penelope has the presence of mind to slip around behind the thing. With a trembling hand, she draws an ornate, silver knife from a sheath on her belt. She’s never fought a wolf, or even another vampire, and this knife is ridiculously small and stupid, but she can’t let her friends be torn apart defending her and do nothing.

The wolf tosses Celine aside and leaps upon Omar, knocking him to the ground and bearing down on him. Penelope gags and her head spins at the sound of his bones snapping beneath its tremendous weight. He gives a bloodcurdling scream that is abruptly cut off in a wet, gurgling sound.

Celine manages to recover and deliver a sharp kick to its face, but it’s too late for Omar, whose body is already beginning to smoke. The kick momentarily stuns it, however, and it stands there blinking and shaking itself.

It’s now or never. Penelope grits her teeth and drives her little antique knife into the wall of white fur. She gasps and lets go, startled by the ease with which it slips in, all the way to the hilt. The wolf rears up and throws its head back, howling in pain.

“Penny, run!” Celine shouts. “Run now!”

“No!” Penelope half sobs. “Not without you!”

The wolf whips around to face Penelope, snarling and snapping its blood-soaked jaws.

“No, wolf!” Celine bellows, leaping between them and shoving Penelope back. “You want to pick on someone, you deal with me!”

The force of Celine’s push carries Penelope directly into a wall. Or, what she thinks for a second is a wall. It’s as hard as stone and doesn’t appear affected in the slightest by her full weight slamming into it. But it’s warm and covered in some kind of cloth, and it has arms, which catch her and prevent her hitting the ground.

She blinks up at it, bleary from the tears in her eyes. It’s a man. A wolf-man, from the smell of it. A very tall, very handsome wolf-man, with golden-blonde hair and big, blue eyes. It’s also unbelievably strong. It has caught her and stopped her sprawling on her ass, but it does not appear to have any intention of letting go.

“That’s enough,” it says, in its deep, commanding wolf-voice.

The white wolf turns and gazes intently at this new wolf-man, seeming to have forgotten all about Celine. The wolf-man holds its gaze till it backs away obediently and sits down on its huge haunches.

“You, vamp, put away the knives. You can’t hurt us with them anyway,” the wolf-man says to Celine. He looks down at the smoldering ashes that had been Omar. “I guess that was a friend of yours.”

“Omar,” Penelope offers, in a tremulous voice. “The wolf killed him. And Germain.”

“It just fucking attacked us,” Celine says angrily, as she slides her knives back into her thigh sheaths. “We told it we weren’t looking for trouble.”

“You weren’t looking for trouble,” the wolf-man says, still holding Penelope fast by her wrist. “You just happened to be here, minding your own business. In another vampire’s territory.”

“What the fuck do you care about vamp territory, wolf?” Celine demands, crossing her arms.

“This is my territory, too,” he says. “It happens to overlap with Winter’s. I have as much right to know what’s going on here as he does.”

“You…you know Winter?” Penelope asks, looking up timidly up at him.

“Yeah, I do. So, what are you doing in his territory?”

“Following a fucking moron into a death trap,” Celine says bitterly.

The wolf-man cocks his head to one side. “Death trap?”

“Yeah, a death trap,” Celine replies. “She made us come here and challenge Winter. Now she’s dead and so are all of our friends.”

“You attacked Winter?” the wolf-man asks, a hard, icy note creeping into his pleasant voice.

Penelope gives a yelp as his iron grip tightens around her wrist, threatening to crush the bones.

“Kira was our leader!” she pleads. “We had to do what she said! Celine and me, we didn’t want to do it, but she would’ve had us killed.”

The wolf-man studies her closely with his terrifying blue eyes. Apparently satisfied that she is telling the truth, he releases her. She backs away and stands chafing her wrist with her other hand, trying not to stare at him. Christ, he’s gorgeous. The other vamps say wolves are nothing but animals, but she’s not so sure that’s true anymore.

As if he’s read her mind, he smiles, which illuminates his face and takes him from handsome to devastating. “You’re a fledgling, huh?”

She nods.

“Don’t believe everything older vampires tell you about wolves.” He turns to Celine. “Tell me about Kira and this thing with Winter. What exactly happened?”

“She was the leader of our gang,” Celine explains, unable, for some reason, to stop herself. “Used to be Levi, but she challenged him and killed him, so that was that. Then she and her thugs started running the show. She’s been scheming to get a hold of Winter’s territory for a long time. Give it back to the people, she said. She really just wanted it for herself, so she could be the queen bee and push people around like some kind of big-shot. I’m glad she’s dead. Now maybe we’ll have some peace and quiet.”

“So, you and your gang, you confronted Winter and he killed her?”

“Yeah, and everyone else. Except Omar and Germain, who your buddy over there just bit in half. There were twenty-five of us. Now there’s just me and Penny.”

“Well, I guess you understand now why the old vamps can hold so much territory,” he says. “They’re not like you young ones. Especially Winter.”

“He’s a fucking demon,” Celine says, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen anything like him. That metal arm…he burned her alive.”

The wolf-man blinks. “Burned her alive?”

“His metal arm was glowing all red,” Penelope elaborates. “He grabbed her with it and we pulled her away. We thought he was gonna let her go, but then she just burned up. Like, in a second.”

“Wow. I didn’t know he could do that.”

“Hey, wolf,” Celine says, looking uneasily between the huge tundra wolf and the blonde wolf-man. “What’s with you and your buddy? You’re, uh…you’re not like other wolves.”

“My name’s Steve,” the wolf-man says. “Steve Rogers. No, we’re not like other wolves. As you can see, we’re a lot bigger and stronger, and way more dangerous. And we can control the transformation.”

“No shit? Why hasn’t your friend changed back, then?”

“Oh, she doesn’t know how yet. This is her first time being in her wolf form.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, her first time,” Celine mutters, looking the white wolf up and down. “She tore through us like tissue paper.”

The wolf in question splits its maw in a deep yawn, then sets about licking the blood from its huge, white paws.

“Um…Steve?” Penelope asks. “Are you gonna kill us?”

“Well, I should, since you attacked Winter,” the wolf-man says thoughtfully. “But I think you probably learned your lesson. Also, if he left you alive, he must have had a reason. But you should probably go, now. And don’t let me catch you in his territory again.”

“Got it,” Celine nods. “You won’t, I swear. Thank you, Steve.”

“No problem,” Steve says cheerfully.

“Bye, Steve!” Penelope calls out, as Celine takes her hand and pulls her hastily away down the street. “It was nice meeting you!”

Steve waits till they are gone, then turns to the white wolf, who is sitting on the ground, paws stretched out before it, like a sphinx. It warbles at him and wags its tail eagerly.

“Time to wake up, Sharon,” he says, kneeling down to lay a hand on its velvety flank.

The wolf laps at his hand and lets out a soft, high-pitched whine.

“I know it’s hard, but you have to do it. Come on, come back to me. Wake up.”

It continues to whine, and begins to pant and shake all over. Then abruptly, its body shifts into the form of a pretty blonde woman, in a white camisole and light-blue pajama bottoms. She is standing on her hands and knees on the ground, blinking and disoriented.

“Steve?” she says dazedly, as he pulls her to feet. “What…happened? Were the hell are we?”

“Brooklyn,” Steve says. “We’re like, twelve blocks from your apartment. I think you were going there.”

“Going there?” she frowns. “What do you mean? Why don’t I have shoes on? Oh god, I didn’t go nuts and run away from the hospital, did I?”

“Yeah, you did. But it’s not your fault. Your wolf took over and made you.”

“My…my wolf,” she repeats, staring up at him.

“Yep. I apologize for being so blunt, but there’s not really a way to ease someone into this. You’re a wolf now, like me. I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Steve?” she demands, backing slowly away. “Are you some kind of psycho or something?”

“No, I’m a werewolf,” Steve says, matter-of-factly. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it’s not the kind of thing you want humans to know. Oh, except Josephine knows. And Peggy.”

“Right,” she says, with a hysterical little laugh. “My aunt and my cousin know you’re a fucking werewolf. Cause those exist. Just like vampires and witches and…Frankenstein monsters.”

“Well, I don’t think Frankenstein monsters are a thing, but I happen to know a vampire and a witch. I actually know a bunch of vampires.”

“Ok, get the fuck away from me,” Sharon says, holding up a warning hand. “I’m going to the nearest place with a phone and calling the cops.”

“Sharon, look at yourself,” Steve sighs. “You’re covered in blood. Let me take you back to your apartment and we can talk about this.”

“What the fuck, why am I covered in blood? I’m not hurt—ow! I am hurt, what is that?”

Steve suddenly recalls the little silver knife he’d seen the fledgling vampire stab into Sharon’s back. Before she can move to stop him, he reaches around her shoulder and plucks it out quickly, to minimize the discomfort. It’s not serious, and her wolf blood will heal the wound in seconds.

“What the fuck!” she says, slapping his arm. “Is that a knife? Did you fucking stab me?”

“No, this vampire woman stabbed you after you killed two of her friends. Don’t step in that, it’s Omar. Or Germain. I don’t remember which was which.”

Sharon looks down, then jumps back with a start, seeing the unnervingly human-shaped pile of ash at her feet.

“What is this?” she says, growing increasingly agitated. “Tell me what’s going on right now, Steve.”

Steve takes her firmly by the shoulders and looks her in the eyes. “Sharon, listen to me. You are a wolf now. You just killed two vampires. You need to get cleaned up and calm down, so I am going to take you home. I’ll explain everything once we’re there, ok?”

“You think I’m letting you in my house? Nice try, you fucking psycho, you’re not—you’re…” She trails off mid-sentence and her eyes go hazy. “What the…what is that smell?”

“That’s me,” Steve says. “You’re smelling me with your wolf senses now. I have a kind of calming scent. A lot of wolves really like it.”

“I…I like it,” she mumbles, letting her head drop onto his chest. “You smell…so good.”

“Hey, don’t fall asleep yet,” Steve laughs, supporting her as her body goes slack against him. “We still have to get you home.”

Too late. She is thoroughly unconscious. The transformation is exhausting at first, and she’s had quite an eventful first foray into wolfdom, so it probably has quite a bit to do with that, as well as the effect of his scent.

As he lifts her in his arms, he looks anxiously down into her face. He will do everything he can to ease the transition, and to make her feel grounded and safe in this new world, but there is nothing he can do to make her accept it. If she can’t come to terms with what she is now, she will literally lose her mind. And it will be his fault.

She is already suffering the direct consequences of his actions, and she may suffer immeasurably more. The choice should have been hers, like it was his, but he took that from her. Made her a monster against her will. His error has cost her her mortal life, and changed her irreversibly.

He steels himself against the deep pang of sorrow and remorse that threatens to crush the breath from his lungs, holds her more securely against his chest, and sprints away into the night.

 

 

 

 

 


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK 
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Dr. Stephen Strange is a tall, well-built but rather slender man of about forty. He wears a very neatly groomed moustache and goatee, and there are sweeps of silver in his dark hair at the temples. Bucky can’t decide if he is handsome or not, but his face is certainly interesting to look at, particularly his intense blue eyes, which seem to compel and command attention.

The most singular thing about his appearance, however, is that he is dressed in what appear to be dark blue monk’s robes (more of the Buddhist kind than the Catholic), over which he is wearing a crimson, high-collared cape. The unfortunate result of these oddly incongruent accoutrements, is that he looks to Bucky very much like a stage magician. He wonders if this is a sorcerer thing or a personal idiosyncrasy, as he approaches the doctor and Loki, who are standing near the fireplace in Loki’s living room.

“Ah, there you are,” Loki says, nodding to his lately arrived friend. “Doctor, please allow me to introduce my dear friend, Winter. Winter, this is Dr. Stephen Strange.”

“The Winter Soldier,” Dr. Strange says, as the two shake hands. “I didn’t know Loki was expecting someone so distinguished, or I’d have worn my fancy cape.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “That’s not your fancy cape?”

“It’s actually my only cape. That was just a little wizard humor.”

“Wizard?” Bucky says. “I thought you were a sorcerer, like Mr. Stark.”

“I am a sorcerer. _The_ sorcerer, as far as this realm is concerned,” Dr. Strange says, unable to prevent a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice. “But I’d prefer not to be compared to Stark. He’s the reason I use wizard instead.”

Bucky tilts his head curiously. “You call yourself a wizard because of Mr. Stark?”

“Well, Stark and those like him. Their kind calling themselves sorcerers gives the rest of us a bad name, so I started using the term wizard to make the distinction clear.”

“But, if I may ask,” Loki interjects. “What is the distinction? I had been under the impression that you and Mr. Stark were very much of a kind, when it comes to your craft.”

“That’s exactly the misconception I want to avoid,” Dr. Strange says, with some energy. “Stark and I are both magic-users, yes, but with a major difference. My order spend many years in rigorous study and meditation, perfecting what you call our craft. As we gain knowledge of the universe, we learn to act as conduits for its power, which we use to maintain balance in this realm. Stark and his ilk borrow power that isn’t theirs and which they can’t possibly understand, and use it for their own gain.”

“But Stark is like, five-hundred years old,” Bucky says doubtfully. “How can you understand the universe and the power you use better than he does?”

“I know I must seem like an infant to you,” the doctor replies, smiling patiently. “But chronological years have very little to do with it. Stark can’t claim a fraction of the knowledge and experience that I have. For example, he has never opened the gates of reality and seen the inner workings of the universe, or lived a thousand lifetimes in a single moment, or contested with a god in a battle of wills and wits, and won.”

“You have done…all those things?” Loki asks, in frank astonishment.

“Well, yeah. I wouldn’t have bragged about them if I hadn’t.”

“Stark isn’t evil or anything, though,” Bucky says, still feeling compelled to defend his old acquaintance. “Anyway, he seems to be using his power for good at the moment.”

“Right, he’s working for Shield now. I’m not saying he or his kind are evil, just irresponsible. I’m sure his intentions are good and I hope the results are…nothing I’ll be called upon to fix, at least.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Loki says. “Why would you be called upon to fix anything at Shield?”

“As long as Stark stays in his wheelhouse, inventing techno-mystical gadgets for Shield agents to play with, I won’t. But, if his activities happened cross into more serious territory, where the effects may have universal implications, then I’d have no choice but to get involved. It’s kind of my job.”

Bucky frowns. “Your job? I thought you were like, a freelance enchanter.”

“Not exactly,” Dr. Strange laughs. “Putting protective spells on windows for vampires is more of a hobby. My actual job—if you can call it that, because I definitely do not get paid—is maintaining the balance in this realm.”

“Um…what?” Bucky asks, now utterly lost.

“It’s way too much to explain right now. The short version is, Earth and the corresponding parts of this realm are essentially under my mystical jurisdiction. Something big-time bad goes wrong, I’m the one who handles it.”

“Shield handles big-time threats, too,” Bucky says, bridling somewhat at this very young man’s casual self-assurance. “I mean, we fought an awakened hydra. That was pretty fucking big.”

Dr. Strange smiles imperturbably. “To be fair, Carol fought the hydra while you all stood there and looked confused. But you’re not working for Shield, as far as I know. Unless something has changed?”

“No, I just hang around with them cause my boyfriend works there. But how do you even know about the hydra? And how do you know Carol?”

“Part of the job. But the threat would have to be much bigger than a hydra for me to intervene personally. Of course, if Shield wasn’t around, a lot of what they do would probably wind up falling to me, so I’m glad they are. Go team.”

“Whatever the case, I hope there hasn’t been any cause for offense between you and Mr. Stark personally,” Loki offers. “Mr. Stark’s daughter is Winter’s particular friend.”

“No, nothing like that,” Dr. Strange assures him. “I’ve never met the man, or his daughter. I know of her professionally, though. Even more of her mother.”

This last bit is spoken in a tone which clearly demonstrates distaste on the part of the doctor for Tash’s mother, but neither Bucky nor Loki are very much surprised by this, nor are they inclined to question him further on the subject.

“Speaking of professional matters,” Loki says, turning the conversation. “I must confess, I invited Winter especially to meet you, tonight. He had expressed interest in your work, and I thought he might observe, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Dr. Strange says genially, turning to address Bucky. “I don’t often have the opportunity to meet someone who has had so much impact on this realm.”

“Who, me?” Bucky asks. “What do you mean, impact on this realm?”

Dr. Strange blinks at him for a moment, then turns to Loki. “Is he serious?”

Loki gives a little sigh and shrugs in response, at which Dr. Strange laughs again, and Bucky looks even more confused.

“Don’t worry about that, for now,” Dr. Strange says, still smiling. “You’re here to see my work, not talk about your significance to the universe. Shall we get started?”

Loki dips his chin in acquiescence, and he and Bucky follow the doctor over to the expansive wall of windows, which comprise the entire north side of Loki’s living room. They stand watching as the man looks up and down the massive pane of glass before him, then casts his eye along the length of the room, from left to right.

“Ok,” he says. “I see that only one of the windows was broken and the enchantment went with it. It’s still intact on the rest of them, but I’d rather remove the entire thing and set the anchor points on the steel casements, rather than the glass itself. I should’ve done that in the first place, but I didn’t really expect you to break a window up here.”

“Nor did I,” Loki says, waving a hand resignedly. “But, I suppose one never expects unhinged former CIA operatives to rappel into one’s home unannounced. Of course, you shall do whatever you think best.”

“That means laying a new enchantment, but we’ll just call it a repair. I wouldn’t think of billing you for my mistake.”

“That is most generous,” Loki replies, with a bow.

The doctor turns to face the window again and holds up his hands, palm-outward, as if the glass is a fire before which he is warming himself. Then, raising one hand above his head, he begins to compass an arc shape. Bucky gazes on in wonder, as what appears to be a brilliant, golden thread appears, following the motion of the man’s hand, until he has drawn a full circle of sparking fire, which hangs in the air before him.

This done, he holds up both hands again, moving them up and down in parallel with the circle, causing the thing to change and grow in intricacy of form and beauty, snaking out new little golden threads, which curl and twine themselves together, creating rings within rings, woven through with symbols that Bucky does not recognize.

The rings seem to him to be spinning now, moving in harmony with one another, like the delicate and perfectly balanced inner workings of a clock. He is still lost in their rhythmic, whirling dance, when the doctor pushes his palms forward, causing the entire thing to move away from him. It glides smoothly along until it contacts the pane of glass, where it explodes, shattering into a million tiny particles of light.

These particles race out along the surface of the windows, covering their entire height and breadth in a fraction of a second. The two vampires watch, entranced, as the sparks gradually diminish and then disappear altogether, leaving nothing visible but the clear, ordinary-looking glass, behind which the city lights glimmer, pallid mockeries of the pure, golden light which has faded from their sight.

“Good as new,” Dr. Strange says, lowering his hands and turning back to his companions.

“Holy fucking shit, that was amazing,” Bucky breathes. “This is what you do?”

“It’s a small part of what I do, yes. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Bucky nods, still looking at the windows. At last, he tears his eyes away from them and looks at the man. “So, doctor. Purely hypothetically, if I was interested in—”

“You’d like me to enchant your windows, as well,” Dr. Strange interrupts. “I’d be more than happy to.”

“You mean you’ll do it?” Bucky asks, surprised. “Just like that?”

“Sure. Normally, you’d call my assistant and set up a consultation, but we can skip that. Just don’t tell anyone I’m playing favorites for famous clients. When should we say? Some time next week?”

“Yes, absolutely. I heard you were usually booked months in advance, though, are you sure you have time?”

“Usually I am, but I can make time for you. Literally.”

This is said with an odd little smile on the part of the sorcerer, but whatever the joke is, Bucky doesn’t understand it.

“Thank you so much,” he says. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Very kind, indeed,” Loki says, looking genuinely pleased. “I am glad Winter will be availing himself of your excellent work. Will you stay for a cup of tea, doctor?”

The tea is agreed to, and the three sit down for what turns out to be a very pleasant half hour of conversation, then Dr. Strange takes his leave. Before he goes, he has made a positive appointment to visit Bucky at his own home at ten o’clock on Thursday night, the next week. After he has gone, Loki sets about clearing away the tea things, shooing away Bucky’s halfhearted attempt to assist. Banished from the kitchen, Bucky stretches himself out on the sofa and lights one of Loki’s cigarettes. He is idly puffing little smoke rings into the air above his head, when Arabella hops up onto the back of the sofa and eyes him disapprovingly.

“What, Moo-moo?” he asks, through his cloud of blue-white smoke.

“Bwah,” she informs him, rather tartly.

“Loki smokes in here all time,” he contends. “How is it any different when I do it?”

“Mwew,” she answers primly, turning up her little nose.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Myah.”

“Fine.” Bucky drags himself up and grinds out the butt in the ash tray, then throws himself back onto the sofa. “You happy, princess?”

“Brrf,” her highness assents.

“Ow, you little chunk,” he grumbles, as she plops down onto his stomach. “I can’t believe I’m getting bossed around by a fucking house cat. I’m a four-hundred-year-old predator, you know. Even other vampires are scared of me.”

“Meh,” Arabella replies unconcernedly, and continues arranging herself comfortably upon said predator’s midsection.

“Hey, I haven’t had a chance to tell you,” Bucky says to Loki. “I had a run-in with some young ones tonight.”

“Indeed?” Loki replies, as he lights his own cigarette.

“Yeah, they were in my neighborhood looking for trouble. They sure found it.”

“They were in your territory?” Loki frowns. “How many?”

“Twenty-five or so,” Bucky says, bending his knees to make room for Loki on the sofa, then stretching his legs out across his lap. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“What did they want?”

“To challenge me. What else?”

“Then I should say they were quite imprudent.”

“To understate it to the point of absurdity. They won’t be making that mistake again.”

“Who were they?”

“Some kind of ragtag street gang. The leader was a smart-mouthed little shit named Kira, you ever hear of her?”

“Kira…” Loki says thoughtfully. “No, that does not ring any bells. Did she speak to you?”

“Boy, did she ever. She gave me quite the lecture. Enlightened me on the fact that the rules are just there so the elders can oppress the young ones, how you and I are reprehensible fatcats—no offense, Moo-moo—and that our territory should be taken away and distributed among the masses. You know. The standard bullshit.”

“How original,” Loki says drily, tapping the ash from his cigarette onto the floor. “What came of it?”

“I told them I’d kill them all, and I did. Well, all except four. I let them go to spread the word about what happens when you fuck with an elder.”

“Hm. It would have been wiser to keep one of them for questioning.”

“Mrah,” Arabella agrees.

“Where would I have brought one for questioning?” Bucky asks, gesturing impatiently. “To my home? Where I live? The last thing I need is some dirty, gutter-punk fledgling to babysit.”

Loki sighs with infinite forbearance. “I suppose you know what you are about, Winter, but twenty-five vampires is not an insignificant number, even though they be young ones. There may be more left than those four.”

“I don’t think there are. Not from this gang, at least. They were too desperate. I’d say it was an all-or-nothing gamble. Even if there are more of them, the story the survivors will tell won’t exactly encourage them to try another fall with me.”

“Well, I am glad at least that you removed the leader. These things usually are instigated by one or two outspoken malcontents among them.”

“She was definitely that. But she only tried it because she thought she had a chance. She said they knew I’d been draining humans without killing them, and that I’d been letting wolves run loose all over my territory. She took those for signs of weakness and saw her opportunity.”

“To be fair, both of those things are true.”

“Neither of those things are signs of weakness, though,” Bucky says, tickling the outer edges of Arabella’s ears with his fingertips, till she folds them back against her head and glares at him. “Those children were no match for me by myself, and we’re stronger than ever, now, with the wolves sharing our territories.”

“But it is the perception of weakness that invites challenge, Winter,” Loki says urgently. “That is what I have been attempting to make you see. If things continue in this way, it will come to a struggle. While there is hardly a doubt we will be victorious, it will be bloody.”

“What do you want me to do? I’m not going to start killing humans again just to pacify those idiots.”

“No, and I am not suggesting that you should. Only that we should think of it, and discuss how we plan to address the matter.”

“Can we discuss it another time?” Bucky says petulantly. “I’ve had a long night.”

“Of course. But, Winter, are you quite well? You look a bit haggard.”

“Thanks,” Bucky glowers. “To tell you the truth, I’m really worried about Venom. I know he’s a big scary monster, but he’s so…innocent. Like a child or something. I can’t stand the thought of him being lost out there all alone.”

“I think I understand a bit of what you mean. We were only together a short time, but my impression of him was similar to what you say. He seemed quite black and white in his ideas of right and wrong, in the way children often are.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he has a lot of moral grey area. Which is weird for a creature who claims he’s a good guy and also eats people. In any case, I think I have an idea of how to find Allan.”

“I thought Allan was dead.”

“Right, I didn’t tell you. The body in the morgue wasn’t his.”

“Whose was it?”

“No idea, but the CIA is claiming it’s him, so they’re playing some game of their own. Whatever it is, I don’t really care. I think Allan set up the wreck to fake his death and escape with Venom. And there’s something else. I’m almost certain he was Venom’s original host.”

“Venom’s original host,” Loki repeats, taken aback. “What makes you think that?”

“Putting the pieces together. I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am.”

“But…if he is Venom’s host, then Venom is not lost. It would seem rather that he is found.”

“Maybe, but I need to know for sure. And even if I’m right, that doesn’t mean I trust Allan. He lied to all of us and attacked you. I’m going to see what I can find out as soon as the sun’s down tonight.”

“It is almost up already. Will you be sleeping here today?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“You are always welcome, but what about Steve? Will he not want you at home?”

“He sent a message a little while ago. He’s still with Sharon and he doesn’t know how long he’ll be.”

“At the hospital?”

“He didn’t say, but I assume so. You look like you don’t approve.”

“I do not disapprove. It is very kind that he should concern himself so much for his friend. Only…her convalescence can’t be his responsibility.”

“He seems to think it is, and if you think Steve can be talked out of anything he’s set his mind to, you don’t know him yet. Speaking of obstinate wolves, where’s Thor? Will he be here today?”

“Yes, but I don’t expect him till later. The pack have taken it into their heads that since my territory is now theirs, it must be thoroughly investigated. They have been coming back bearing all manner of new and repulsive scents.”

“They’re so fucking gross, I swear,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “There’s literally nothing Steve won’t roll around in.”

“One of the joys of being mated to a wolf. We brought this upon ourselves.”

“Yeah, but it’s worth it.”

“I suppose it is.”

Bucky looks up at Loki, but his expression is unreadable. He sits tranquilly smoking and gazing away into the middle-distance.

“Is it?”

“Hm?”

“Is it really worth it, to you?”

“I think it is. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that, a couple of weeks ago you were dead-set against ever seeing Thor again and now you’re back together. That’s a big step. I guess I thought you’d be happier. I hoped you would.”

“I am happy,” Loki says slowly, gazing at the ember of his cigarette. “It is difficult, though, to utterly alter one’s mode of life and to accustom oneself to another’s habits all of a sudden. You must know that better than anyone. In perfect truth, I have been feeling more than a bit out to sea in all this. I do not know how to be…to be—”

“Loved?”

“Well, yes, if you must put it in such juvenile terms. I mean to say that I do not know how to act with another’s interests always in mind. I am never certain what it is proper to do—where I am to relent and where to stand my ground. Such compromises have never come easily to me and I have found it terribly trying. But I have accepted him and so it must be.”

“Relationships are hard, Loki,” Bucky says, holding Arabella by her ample haunches and rocking her side to side, to her manifest indifference. “It’s not easy for Steve and I, either.”

“That’s ridiculous, Winter, of course it is. I have never seen anyone so happy as the two of you when you are together.”

“It really isn’t, though,” Bucky insists. “I’m glad we make it look easy, but I’m not exactly used to compromise, either. I like having my own way and not being accountable to anyone. So, when Steve tells me in no uncertain terms what I am going to do, it’s hard to swallow my pride and not tell him to go fuck himself.”

“Please,” Loki snorts. “I cannot even imagine you speaking that way to your darling wolf boy. It’s not possible.”

“That’s because I don’t. Talking to him that way would hurt him. I love him and I don’t want to hurt him. It’s not that he won’t listen to my opinion. He will. But Steve is literally the most stubborn man on the planet, and if it came to a real battle of wills between us, I’d cave like a house of cards.”

“It would be terribly difficult to argue with a man who is always right,” Loki says musingly.

“He’s not… _always_ right.”

“No, of course not. He is only never wrong.”

“I mean, he did cut the head off that hydra, despite Tash’s direct request that he not do that.”

“That was not him being wrong, that was him making a mistake. There is a difference.”

Bucky narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Oh, I see what’s going on, here. You’re on his side now, you rotten traitor.”

“It would be rather foolish to be on any side that is not his,” Loki smiles. He taps Bucky’s shin, and Bucky moves his legs so he can get up. “I am off to bed. Take whatever guest room you like. Or you may sleep on the sofa with Arabella, if you are so inclined.”

“I’d better take the room,” Bucky says, sitting up as well, despite Arabella’s indignant warble of protest. “Enchantment or not, I can’t sleep with the fucking sun in my face. I hate that thing.”

“Do you? I rather like it, when it can be safely managed. Perhaps I am still too young to have developed a very strong aversion.”

“Maybe. I can’t even remember if I liked the sun when I was human. It was so long ago.”

“I do not know how you would have formed an opinion one way or the other, living in Ireland.”

“Hey, that’s a myth. Ireland gets plenty of sun.”

“Does it.”

“Yep. It comes out for a whole hour sometimes.”

“I shall believe that when I see it,” Loki says archly. “Come along, Arabella. Goodnight, Winter.”

He gives a cordial bow, then retreats to his room, preceded by his fluffy white compatriot, who trots ahead of him, eager to stretch out on his pillows and be generally in the way when he attempts to lie down. Bucky goes to the guest room he had shared with Steve, where he strips off his clothes and falls into bed like a stone, compelled to his rest by the tyranny of Helios, who suffers no creature of the darkness to walk beneath his fiery eye.

 

 

 

 

Sharon wakes with a start in a darkened room, disoriented and gasping, her heart pounding with adrenaline. She knows at once that she is lying in her own bed in her apartment, but she’d almost swear that she had been awakened by the sound of a man’s voice. Keeping her entire body tense and alert, she lies perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, recalling what she can of her self-defense training.

There it is again. It is absolutely a man’s voice and it’s coming from the living room. Her first thought is that Isabella must have let someone in for some reason. Her second thought is that she can’t smell Isabella anywhere in the place and her third thought is that this makes absolutely no sense. Why the fuck would she think she’d be able to smell her housekeeper? Thanks brain, good to know you’re finally breaking down.

With her next cautiously indrawn breath, her brain informs her that the voice she hears belongs to her friend Steve, which is, of course, completely batshit crazy. Steve wouldn’t be in her apartment (she has invited him up and been declined enough times to know that) and even if he was, she wouldn’t know him by his _smell_.

She explains this fact to her erring brain, using its previous assertion regarding Isabella’s absent scent as further evidence that it is malfunctioning in some deeply concerning ways. Her brain, however, staunchly maintains that the voice is Steve’s, that Isabella is not in the house, and that she had just better go and find out for herself if she thinks she knows so much.

Sharon contests that what she should obviously do is call the police. Like a sane person. Who does not know other people by their scents. Her brain asks where her phone is, then, and if it’s not here in the room, how does she intend to get to it without alerting Steve—who, by the way, is absolutely the owner of the voice in the living room, whether she wants to admit it or not.

She lies there for a few more fruitless minutes, attempting to make her brain understand that it’s a stupid jackass who wants to get them both killed, then gives up in disgust. She can’t lie here forever arguing with her brain and waiting to be axe-murdered. You can only die once, so fuck it. Taking care to move as silently as possible, she slides out of bed and tiptoes into the hallway, where she can hear the voice more clearly. She pauses, listening.

“I don’t know if you guys know how big a hydra is, but trust me they are huge,” the voice that is definitely Steve’s (shut up brain no one likes you) is saying. “Way bigger than that. Its heads were almost the size of this whole building. Ten. But I cut one off and then it had eleven.”

Sharon hears what is so unmistakably a woof of disbelief from one of her stout little corgis that she has to suppress a laugh, despite her bewildered state.

“I know how numbers work, Dusty, hydras grow back two heads for each one you cut off,” Steve retorts. “You can ask Winter, he was there.”

There is a low growl in response to this suggestion.

“Come on, guys, I explained all about that. You promised not to hold it against him, so you’d better be nice.”

As he is saying this, Sharon sneaks to the end of the hallway and peers cautiously around the corner. Sure enough, Steve is lying on his stomach on the living room floor, propped up on his elbows. Dusty and Waffles are sitting facing him, as if the three are in close conference together. She must not have been as stealthy as she thought, because an instant later, Steve has hopped to his feet and the two overjoyed corgis are leaping upon her, showering her with ecstatic demonstrations of affection.

“Hey, you’re up,” stupid, sexy, unbelievably hot and impossibly perfect so of course gay Steve says cheerfully. “How are you feeling?”

“I think I’m ok, but…I don’t exactly remember how I got home,” Sharon says, sitting down on the sofa to pet the jubilant dogs. “I didn’t pass out in the park again, did I?”

Steve shifts uncomfortably. “Uh. No. You don’t remember anything?”

“The last thing I—” Sharon stops short and frowns between the two furry heads, who are nuzzling her face with their wet noses. “Wait…I was in the hospital. What am I doing here? What are _you_ doing here?”

Steve doesn’t answer. She is looking away out the window now, and the question doesn’t seem to be addressed to him, anyway. Sensing her distress, Dusty and Waffles sit back and watch their mistress intently. Her frown deepens into an expression of utter confusion. She reaches up to lay a hand on her brow, then her eyes go wide and she lets it fall again.

“Oh,” she says at last. She looks up at Steve with her mouth open, as if intending to say something, but all she can manage is another, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking down at the floor. “For what it’s worth…I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re sorry?” Sharon repeats, with a hysterical laugh. “You only fundamentally altered everything I knew about reality and changed my entire life forever, what’s there to be sorry about, Steve?”

“I was trying to do the right thing,” he says lamely. “You would have died.”

“Oh, I know. I remember it all now.” She jumps to her feet and begins to pace to and fro. “Someone bit me. A man. He had some kind of venom on his teeth and I went into a coma. You came into my room and made me—gross. You made me drink your blood and turned me into…a thing like you.”

“A werewolf,” Steve says.

“Right. A fucking—a fucking werewolf,” she says, almost panting with agitation. “And tonight, I changed into a wolf for some reason. At the hospital.”

“After the hospital. You were still in your human form when you jumped out the window.”

“Oh, got it. My human form. Cause that’s a thing I have now. A human form. Wonderful. Well, I guess I lost my job. Fucking…fuck. I really fucking liked my job, Steve.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s—well, I was going to say it’s not your fault, but it categorically _is_ your fault. And that man who bit me. It’s his fault, too.”

“Winter. He’s my boyfriend. We’re in love.”

“ _Winter?_ His name is—nevermind, of course it is. He’s your boyfriend and you’re in love and he’s a vampire. A real one. So fucking vampires are real, too. And they’re poisonous, I guess?”

Steve shakes his head. “Not usually. He was when he bit you, but he’s not anymore. It’s kind of complicated.”

“Oh, is it, Steve? Is it kind of complicated?”

“Yes, it is. But he didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear. It was an accident.”

“A fucking accident?” she nearly shouts, clenching her fists at her sides. “You fucking…damn it. I was trying to accuse you of lying to protect him, but I know you’re telling the truth. Wait, why do I know that?”

“Because I would never lie to you about something like that,” Steve says resolutely. “Also it’s one of your werewolf abilities. You can smell the chemical changes in people’s bodies and detect their emotions and intentions.”

“I can?”

“Yep. That means you’ll usually be able to understand what people are thinking and feeling. And most animals. Oh, and canine animals will be able to understand you now, too.”

At this, Dusty and Waffles stand up straighter and puff out their little chests, looking up at her expectantly.

Sharon looks at Steve, then back at them. “Can you guys understand me?”

“Wowf,” Dusty confirms.

“Wurf,” Waffles agrees.

“See?” Steve beams.

Sharon nods slowly, still staring down at her faithful protectors, who suddenly appear to have taken on a look of intelligence she hadn’t observed in them before. She’d always thought they were a bit dumber than average, even for dogs, but she is beginning to doubt that. She can read something different, now, in their sweet faces and big, brown eyes. A keen awareness and sense of purpose particular to their own kind, but normally unintelligible to humans.

There’s something else, too, much more important than their canine astuteness. She finds all at once that she can fully comprehend the complexity of their scents, and interpret the signals carried on them. Her eyes immediately fill with tears and she collapses back onto the sofa, holding out her arms to embrace them.

“I love you guys, too,” she sniffles, as they snuggle into her arms. “I love you so much. You’re the best boys in the whole world.”

For the first time, she knows that they understand her, and what she means to them. She feels in her canine companions, a depth of unconditional love and loyalty that she has never experienced, and beneath it, a courage she could never have imagined. Inside these two little bodies, stout and stubby-legged though they be, beat the hearts of warriors. As brave and as true as if they were towering, mail-clad knights, sworn to the service of their lady. Sir Dusty the Dauntless, and Sir Waffles the Lion-hearted.

She laughs through her tears and hugs them tighter, pressing kisses into their silky, white and ginger-spotted fur, and receiving sloppy dog kisses all over her face in return. She is still confused and scared, and has no idea what her new life will be, but to have communication and real friendship with her two dearest boys this way…it might just be worth whatever she’ll have to endure. When she looks up, she sees that there are tears in Steve’s eyes, too, though he turns quickly away to conceal them.

“Hey,” she says. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Steve looks confused (and somehow absurdly handsome at the same time). “I’m…standing here?”

“Yeah, well, this is a family hug. Bring it in, big guy.”

 

 

 

 

Bucky has been lurking around Hell’s Kitchen for more than a week now, staking out Catholic churches, wandering through soup kitchens and homeless shelters, anywhere he is likely to find men of the cloth at their work. So far his search has turned up nothing. No sign of anything that might conceal more militant episcopal activities.

His investigation is somewhat obstructed by the fact that he can’t actually enter a church, but they can’t be training demon hunters right in the fucking sanctuaries anyway, and they have to be doing it somewhere. He’ll just have to catch a priest outside the church and question him, which he is extremely reluctant to do. And the priest he finds will have to be willing, since Bucky won’t be able to employ his usual means of compelling confession from sinners. These are not good odds.

He steps out from the shadows of the arch beneath which he has been standing and strolls along down the mostly deserted street. Mostly deserted, because there is one other late-night wanderer present in this particular avenue. One of the city’s many faceless and forgotten indigents, wrapped in a huge, shabby, black overcoat, nearly doubled over with his pronounced stoop.

The man had been hobbling along down the sidewalk at a snail’s pace, about thirty yards behind him, when he’d stepped into the archway to think. When he’d stepped out again ten minutes or so later, the man still hadn’t passed by it, having stopped to rifle a waste receptacle for…whatever he’d hoped to find inside.

“Hey, pal,” the man calls out, in a guttural rasp. “Spare some change for a vet?”

Bucky ignores the salutation and turns the corner into a narrow alleyway.

“Yeah, well fuck you, too,” he hears the man grouse drunkenly, as he vanishes into the deep shadows. “Fuckin’ asshole.”

The disgruntled gentleman makes his slow and unsteady way along the street, muttering to himself about the cold and the general cruelty of the world, and eventually passes by the alleyway the well-dressed young man had used to make good his uncharitable escape. Or, he would have passed it by, had not his steps been abruptly arrested by the miraculous reappearance of said young man, who seems to materialize directly in his path, forcing him to stop short to avoid running bodily into him.

“Spare some change for a vet?” the persistent mendicant mumbles, holding out a calloused hand.

“Are you really a veteran?” the young man asks, in a voice as smooth and divine as the other’s is rough and profane.

“Of fuckin’—of course I am,” the importuner slurs indignantly.

He lifts his head just enough to peer out at his proposed benefactor from beneath his heavy hood. The young man smiles. Soft, pouting lips part to reveal perfect, pearl-white teeth. Large, green eyes sparkle, even in the heavy gloom. He is so beautiful that it nearly takes even this wrecked, war-weary man’s breath away.

“Perfect,” the green-eyed seraph pronounces. “Then you might be just the man I’m looking for.”

The ostensible destitute veteran has not even formed a response, when he finds himself pinned to the brick wall in the alley, struggling in vain against the cold, iron-hard hand that is wrapped around his neck, painfully compressing his windpipe. The other hand is throwing back his hood and tearing away the ratty scarf that had concealed the lower part of his face. 

Then the preternaturally strong and beautiful young man pauses and studies his face, which is by no means beautiful, but is certainly not the face one would expect to be attached to this ragged costume and equally ragged voice. He’s a young man, as well—in his late thirties at most—with black hair in a military-style cut. There is a rather rough look about him (scars, nose obviously broken more than a few times), but something about the keen, dark-brown eyes and resolute set of the jaw makes him almost handsome.

“Why are you following me,” Bucky demands, easing his hold on the man’s throat enough to allow him to speak. “What do you want?”

“You’re Winter, yeah?” the man rasps, after he has caught his breath. The voice was real, at least. It still sounds like a gravel road in hell. 

“I am. Who the fuck are you? I mean, aside from a living Capri Sun pouch I’m about to pop a straw into.”

“That’s pretty funny,” the man says, with equally admirable sarcasm and lack of concern for his mortal existence. “I heard you guys were clever, but that was a good one.” 

Bucky sighs. These fucking New Yorkers aren’t scared of anything anymore. Oh, well. He leans close, holding the man’s impudent eyes with his, as his thrall radiates outward from his body like ripples in a pond. Much to his immediate discomfiture, the man laughs. Actually laughs. Right in his face. What the actual fuck is the world coming to? 

“That ain’t gonna work on me, so you can save your energy,” he says, in his obnoxious and kind of irritatingly sexy lower-Manhattan twang. “You don’t need to know my name. All you need to know is I got a friend who needs your help.” 

“That really is funny,” Bucky sneers. “Your friend can go fuck himself. Just so you know, my fangs work fine without the thrall. Only it’s really going to hurt.”

“My friend’s name is Allan. Charles Allan.”

Bucky is visibly startled at hearing the name pronounced, and curses himself inwardly for not having the presence of mind to hide the fact from this insolent human. Well, play it as it lies. 

“Allan sent you to find me and ask for my help. You know I’m not on his side, right?”

“Oh, I know it. He’s not a huge fan of yours, either. He said you’d probably kill him, but we figured it’d be worth a shot, since he’s dying anyway.” 

“What do you mean, dying?” Bucky asks sharply. “What’s wrong with him?”

 

 

 


End file.
